Forsworn Prince
by thyvillain
Summary: Before Ulfric conquered Markarth and drove out the Reachmen, the Daedric Prince Azura foretold a prophecy that will drastically change Skyrim. Years later, Ulfric Stormcloak is the High King, the vampires are on a quest to end the tyranny of the sun and the Dragonborn is thrust into a conflict between the Daedric Princes themselves. Slightly AU. Dragonborn/Serana.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! This is just a small message before you begin reading my story. First of all, thank you for taking some time to read this, it means a lot to me. Second of all, this is my first story I am actually putting out into the public so naturally my writing won't be the best, I know I have far, far to go! I worked hard to really educate myself on the lore of Elder Scrolls and everything else however there are thousands of years worth of lore and I am but one person so naturally there is a big chance that I might get something wrong or inaccurate, feel free to correct me at any point. If you point something out I'll make sure to do more research and get to the bottom of it. I encourage you to review since that is the way I can make my story more enjoyable for myself to write and for everyone else to read, and to become a better writer in general.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own. **

**Without further ado! **

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Chapter 1

It was snowing heavily; it has been since the early morning. That and the bitter chill of northern Skyrim would have provided any other man with a terrible dilemma, along with a series of frostbites – but Arbos was no common man.

He drew the heavy fur cloak tight about his shoulders; noting the light; unearthly shimmer of enchantments that ran along the seemingly coarse and simple fabric with approval. In his palm, gloved as it was he held a sword and in the other he held a pulsing gulf of fire, rippling within the cage of his fingers like serpents willing to burst free at any indication of weakness.

He exhaled softly, an even, drawn out sigh that made no sound in the wall of wailing, northern winds and crept closer to the snow covered hut a few steps away. Placing each step with caution he moved towards the bare entrance to the seemingly stone structure, the roof shaped like any other simple mound of snow. Bracing his elbow against the hut's outside wall he peered up into the exposed, glassless window – aware of the light, cheery glow of a fire. Immediately he noted the passive shape of a bandit, a Redguard in studded armor that should not have served proper purpose to ward off the cold, with a bow slung over her back and a dagger at her waist. As soon as Arbos leaned higher to scan the place for any other potential threat the woman leapt to her feet.

"Who's there?!" Arbos grunted a curse and stood, quickly dashing through the doorway and into the not so abandoned hut and the armed bandit that waited within. The moment he stepped in he heard the warning whistle of an arrow flying towards him - managing to duck a moment before impact and hearing the clatter of wood and iron against stone at his back where the arrow landed.

Focusing on the Redguard who was backing away and drawing her bow with an alarming speed he shouted;

"Liss!" Clenching the hand to extinguish the flame that coated his fingers he watched the streaking wall of ice that formed in front of him as it flew and encased the bandit, sending her frozen, motionless body against the far wall. It was a weak shout, but a stronger one was not needed for the circumstance, and it might not be the last Thu'um he would use before the sun set.

Sweeping over the one room hut with a keen eye he searched for any other potential threat, sighing when the only other body in the room turned out to be splayed against a wall; limp and unmoving with a pained expression on his face, pale and lifeless that didn't hint a peaceful death – the lacerated throat helped too.

Satisfied that there was no major danger at the moment, seeing as the only other alive being was immobile and satisfyingly frozen he knelt before the dead elf, High Elf if judged by the high cheekbones and the what once probably was abnormally yellow skin. He reluctantly left his lithe sword of the Blades on the cool, rotting floor, slipping off his gloves and began rummaging through the pockets for scrolls and potions, running a hand along the High Elf's throat and wrists for jewelry and grimacing at the blood that coated his fingers. The cut was not enough to kill quickly.

There was a groan, his hand stilled suddenly and he quickly withdrew from the seemingly dead body from which the sound originated, snatching his sword while he sprung up and pressing the metal tip to the now semi alert elf on the floor.

A Shout was on the tip of his tongue as he watched with growing fascination as the still pale, so lifeless like body shifted on the floor and Arbos leaned forward, his knuckles turning white tightening the grip on his sword.

"Laa – " Red eyes snapped open, a dreadful, eerie glow illuminating them from within and the shock of them stopped Arbos from finishing and unlocking his Thu'um to detect life.

What seemed like a body adamant on decomposing was now standing with the speed that only magicka could achieve, and the elf with the glowing eyes snarled, it snarled and lunged towards him like a desperate man dying of hunger.

The moment the foul creature attacked Arbos snapped to attention, a breath of fire lunging towards the madman as he shouted,

"Yol! Toor! Shul!" A piercing shriek erupted from the elf creature as the cloud of fire engulfed him, lapping at and burning and cooking his body whole. And Arbos stumbled slightly, a breathlessness coming over him from the strength required by the Shout. He did not let himself waver for longer than a second, clenching his hand and calling forth his magic, a burst of fire compressed by his fingers but not burning them and released it towards the burning being, ignoring the horrendous, utterly inhuman screams that it caused.

The body writhed and stumbled but kept going, running towards him despite the fact that it was burning, and the stench of burnt flesh had not gone unnoticed by Arbos. And finally when the elf made no move to fall and die he thrust his sword into the elf's charred collarbone, the slice and shriek of metal cutting leather, skin and flesh ringing in his ears.

The body now impaled wavered, sagged and finally dropped to the floor with a thud and nauseas squelch as the metal, still intact cut through muscle. Arbos stared at the mess at his feet – blood coating his boots and his hands and slowly he slipped his sword out of the charred body on the floor, staring at the dark blood that now stained it.

He exhaled, the mist streaming out his mouth and turned away towards the still frozen body on the floor.

He walked up to the immobile Redguard, the tip of his sword dragging along the rotten wood and glared, placing the metal tip at her throat.

"Why does your kind give me so much trouble?" He hissed through his teeth, tightened the grip on his sword and drove it down into her jugular until metal met wood and the squelch of blood; normal blood pooled quickly out of the wound – mixing with the odd, nightmarish deeper red of the body, charred, stabbed and broken on the other side of the room.

Yanking his sword out of its human sheath he kneeled once more, his senses highly attuned to his surroundings and specifically to the other, gruesome body resting nearby he yanked at the knapsack worn by the Redguard. Slipping his hand inside, he scourged it for a specific object, searching relentlessly until his fingers met the welcome feel of cool chain. He grasped careful fingers around the thin, metal chain and pulled the necklace out of the bag – a glint of gold and rugby met his eyes and he allowed himself a brief smile, ignoring for a moment the churning in his stomach at the lingering stink of burnt flesh and the ringing screams as the High Elf burnt.

_Perfect_. His eyes lingered on the sheen of the ruby and he wondered at its worth. He pressed his thumb to the medallion handing from the chain, the blood smeared onto the expensive gem in the center, the color of the ruby further alienating the odd, dark blood that stuck to his fingers. A nervous tingle ran along his nape. His eyes hardened and his jaw clenched at the sight of the blood and with a heavy frown and a harsh oath under his breath he briefly brushed the medallion against the leather of his armor and dropped it into the purse at his belt.

He stood with one last glance at the bandit on the floor, unable to ignoring the tingling sensation in his nape he turned towards the body that shook him.

_Another fuel to my nightmares, _he stared at the charred body with a grim frown; his gaze caught a flash of white that drew his attention. His curiosity inflamed once more he carefully crept closer. _I should leave_, he thought briefly, but his curiosity overwhelmed his inner protests and in the next moment he found himself staring at the face of the possessed High Elf. Something pale was peeking out, imbedded into the lip and he gingerly placed his hand to hover above the ashen face, slowly he peeled the upper lip back and stiffened, his jaw twitched.

He saw fangs. The pale skin flashed in his mind with warning, the glowing, red eyes was staring back at him once more, so real as if the creature had come to life again.

_A vampire. _His hand flinched away as if the vampire would come awake once more and try to bite him. It nearly did, he shivered at that particular fact but did not find strength to withdraw from the corpse. That is until a bag caught his attention, it was lying in the corner where he had first found the vampire; before it attacked him. He looked back at the corpse once more, as if to reassure himself that it was dead and would stay that way and finally stood. He picked up the bag and peeled back the flap that covered its contents, careful to see what was inside.

A collection of odd potions greeted him, ones he had never seen before – although very similar to a Healing potion he had often used himself. Cautiously he reached in and grabbed a bottle around its throat and dropped the bag at a nearby table, examining the potion in his hand closely.

It was odd both in color and texture unlike any potion he had seen before, and yet it seemed familiar. _I have seen this plenty of times before_... His eyes zeroed in on the pool of blood in the background, spilled on the floor.

Blood.

He uncorked the vial and tipped it, a lone drop of red slipping and landing on his finger – red, thick, so familiar.

It was blood.

He smelled the charred flesh again. He heard the screaming. Ringing in his ears – but it wasn't the creature, it wasn't _it_. The world spun and It was burning, everything was aflame, burning houses, screams of thousands. They were war cries, frightened screams, shrieks of pain all combined together until they flowed across the city like thunder, a burning city. Figures hidden in shadow, hands grabbing at him, blinding him and taking him away – away from the screams and the cries and shrieks until he couldn't hear them, couldn't smell the smoke.

He blinked, the world righted itself and he was back in the abandoned hut in the ice covered northern Skyrim, in the ice land near Winterhold.

_Now is not the time_, he drew himself up, having slouched over to kneel on the floor somewhere along the memory lane. He felt light headed, nauseas and ill. _Not the time, Azura, not at all_. He hissed inside his mind, directing it towards the Daedra Prince that seemed so keen on following him.

There was a brief moment of silence in the room, when the only noise was the now dulled wailing of the window outside, the careful brush of falling snow along the terrain and the distant roars of the native Horker and wolf. Then:

_I thought you wanted to remember. _The voice commented dryly, Arbos scowled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Do I? _

_No. _She whispered once more, her voice resounding in his head like an echo in a cave. His irritated expression did not lessen at her tone, it sounded like pity.

"How would you know, you are after all not me." He muttered under his breath, he did not enjoy the mental conversations he had with the Daedra Prince; somehow the thought of having another entity in your head is not at all comforting.

_You will remember when you will wish to remember_. _And stop trying to block me out_.

He grabbed the bag, ignoring the clink of glass on glass as he hooked the strap over his shoulder, dropping the opened vial onto the floor where it spilled – he did not look at the bodies that littered the floor, nor the blood. He grabbed the sword he had discarded at some point, wiped the blood on the bandit's clothing and slipped it into its sheath at his waist. Leaving the hut, he didn't look back once.

Stepping out into the snow he sighed heavily, adjusting the strap on his shoulder while the bag and the vials within pressed in his back – taunting him with their contents. He thought back on what the Daedra said.

_Is it possible? _He asked carefully, unsure of how the deity would react.

There was no answer. And he did not pry further.

Ignoring the insistent tingling in his nape that screamed at him for turning his back on the foul creature that was lying a doorway away, he trudged over a snowy hill to greet his companion, who neighed eagerly at his return and trotted along the ice to his side, shaking his great mane as Arbos patted his nose with a fond smirk.

"Niro," The beast stomped a hoof and scooped at the snow and ice that stretched for miles all around them.

Arbos took a moment to rest his forehead against the Niro's warm side, rising and falling with each massive breath before he was jolted by another demanding neigh and a wild shake of the horse's head.

"I know, Niro." He sighed and grabbed at the hold of the saddle, swinging himself up onto the horse's back and nudging the beast forward.

Niro bolted at the touch of his master's heel, carrying his rider across the vast land of ice and towards the distant dot that stands as College of Winterhold. And the great library it holds within.

After all, mages have an uncanny ability to know things they had no business to, and if they don't know, they have an uncanny ability to find out.

The same is doubly true for the Arch Mage.

**This chapter is as long as I would have liked it to be, but I will try to lengthen my chapters in the future. Thank you for reading, and please don't forget to review. See you next chapter!**

**~Thyvillain**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A week later! I will try to keep my updates as consistent as possible, most likely every week but perhaps more often if I can manage. I have multiple obligations in school, work and my extracurricular that keep me occupied most of the time, but I'll do my best to make my updates as speedy as possible without sacrificing quality!**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own. **

**Without further ado:**

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Chapter 2

The College of Winterhold was a grand structure, magnificent both inside and out. In it, studied the intelligent minds from across all of Tamriel from High Rock to Morrowind to Blackmarsh. Despite the glory one could find inside the giant stone walls however, the hold capital itself seemed desolate and pale by itself – comparing to the College it was a mere slip of a village. The reputation of the Arcane Institution was somewhat bettered by its leadership under a Dragonborn, a man of legend that even the Nords have a tendency to worship; despite their deep mistrust towards the Arcane Arts. But the harsh climate and the tendencies of rash, young mages were hard to overcome even with thousands of year's worth of lore.

The Dragonborn himself rode his horse along the snow covered cobblestones amidst the clutter of houses, and despite the apparent desolation he found himself at peace. The air was crisp and fresh, and the winds, despite their wild battering at his fur clad armour blocked out all other noise, leaving him to gather his thoughts before he entered the College which he governed as Arch-Mage and was sought out by all who thought themselves at the verge of some breakthrough or other.

He enjoyed his role as Arch-Mage, well more like the privileges that came with the title. He enjoyed the garden – every Alchemist's dream, and he was proud of his determined upkeep of the specified vegetation since he became the leader of the College by the will of Savos Aren. He enjoyed the Arcanaeum, worshipping the tomes almost as possessively as Urag who has preserved them since well before Arbos himself was born. And equally he enjoyed the balconies from which he could oversee the vast land of nothingness surrounded by water, ice and snow.

The leadership aspect itself did not particularly please him, his responsibility to resolve any conflict between the common people and his students. And to confront any who seek to undermine the College in any way. Thievery and major acts of aggression were uncommon due to the strict regulations, but when dealt with the punishment is always brutal - Expulsion, exile, a bad history spread to any other Institute of the Arcane Arts to warn them of potential hazardous apprentices. As much as Arbos disliked his responsibilities most times, he felt a binding obligation to every mage who entered the College to raise it as a respected school of the Arcane, and to erase the ugly stains of history that marred it.

It was an obligation that constantly left Arbos frustrated, angry or disappointed – but the single feelings of accomplishment, the thrill of a challenge and the pride in the undertakings of his apprentices was reason enough to strengthen his conviction.

He reigned in Niro by the stone carved bridge separating the giant structure from homes scattered at the cliff's edge, clutching the saddle as he dismounted – mindful of the clink of potions in his bagged possessions that he then unstrapped from his mount.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder he briefly patted the beast's nose, grinning at the white fogged snort he received in response.

"Find yourself a place to be, Niro." He murmured with a chuckle, slapping the horse's muscled shoulder to hurry him along and turning to face the bridge when he heard the trot of hooves on snow and stone heading towards the hold – to find the stables most likely.

Breathing in the crisp air once more and tightening the furs around him against the chill he began climbing the steps to the College; his home for a little less than a decade.

Ascending to the snow white court yard, show casing the statue giant statue of Shalidor, the first Arch-Mage in the centre with his arms upraised as if to about to bend the very elements of winter to his will. Passing the great statue he opened the great double doors and entered the College, at once bombarded with the warmth of powerful heating enchantments that were woven within the stone walls.

"Arch-Mage" The genial, deep voice spoke up from the center of the Hall of Elements.

Arbos approached the Hall and found the somewhat pleasant but intent gaze of Tolfdir, surrounded as he was by five students of the College. He studied the apprentices with interest, noting one or two fall uncomfortable under his scrutiny. There was an Altmer woman, two Dunmer and a Khajiit – behind them he noted the other apprentice with his heavy Nordic features and his gaze lightened, it was always a pleasant surprise to find a race who are so adamant against the Arcane arts within the College as an aspiring student, and not a troublesome vandal.

Tilting his head he puzzled over their curious and alarmed expressions, before realizing that despite his face being covered by the Arch-Mage's hood, he wore the fur armour over his Arch-Mage robes, he must have looked like a bandit thug!

Nevertheless he acknowledged his old friend with a brief smile in return and gestured towards the Arch-Mage quarters beyond the hall,

"We should speak after you are done with today's lecture, Master Wizard."

He chose to ignore for the moment the new students who, despite Tolfdir being the appointed Master Wizard, responsible to look after all the students, would still find one way or another to disrupt his peace and introduce them at one point or another. Until then, there were duties he must address and he must be prompt. He will meet the new apprentices soon enough.

At Tolfdir's nod of acceptance Arbos walked passed them for the staircase directly on the left side of the Hall, entering his safe haven and home.

Passing the lines of books shelved along the walls he entered the circular chambers with the thriving potion's garden taking up the heart of the room, everything else scattered around it. Pillars lining the flowing arch of the ceiling that hid the enclosed space where his bed was stationed, and the similar enclosed spaces of all his Enchanting and Alchemy instruments and works that were lined up around the room.

With a grin that quickly grew subdued by exhaustion he hunched his shoulders with no more pretense of authority and began unbuckling the leather ties of the fur armour, feeling parched under the sweltering heat of fur in a warm environment. Gathering the furs and dropping them into a chest by the foot of his bed straightened his Arch-Mage robes, letting the hood drape over his back to keep his face in view while he was in the privacy of his chamber.

Feeling the engulfment of enchantments registering over his robes that never failed to bring him a sense of security he approached his work desk, staring at the scatter of parchments, notes, tomes and scrolls that all hid various levels of enchantments and spells.

His perusal was drawn to a note sealed with the stamp of Winterhold, his fingers picked up the note, his brows furrowing as he opened it and studied the experienced writing within.

After a moment he tossed the note carelessly back into the mess with a huff and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, staring at the neat scrawl of writing;

_Arch-Mage Arbos,_

_On behalf of the Jarl of Winterhold we regret to inform you of an incident concerning..._

He took a breath and peeled his gaze away from the damnable piece of paper. He didn't appreciate having another troublesome apprentice to deal with and a mistrustful population of Winterhold to assure. His eyes darting around the room for any valid excuse to deal with something, _anything_ else h zeroed in on the satchel he had used during his hunt for the amulet as a favour. Satisfied with the diversion and his curiosity peaked he snatched it from the nearby drawer it was carelessly thrown on and studied its contents; one in particular.

His thumb grazed the ruby heart of the amulet, his eyes drawn to the detail of the gem.

Arbos frowned, when he first discovered the amulet in the dreaded snow hut far up north, his vision was obscured by the northern dark and shadows. Now, in the illuminated room he found details he had not noticed before. Holding the amulet now, with its silver chain and the smooth plate that sheltered the gem center it was still easy to be distracted, but not enough to not notice the odd, cool pattern of engraving pressing against the palm of his hand. Turning it over the squinted at the odd inscription, tilting his hand to make out the detail in the light he finally concluded that the amulet bore an engraved symbol.

An odd symbol, one he has never seen before despite his many ventures into the old tombs and abandoned forts that littered Skyrim.

_Does it not look familiar? _He jerked up from his seat at the humoured voice, cursing as the amulet clattered to the floor and hastily scooped up from the floor.

"Azura." He snapped, he had hoped the Daedric Prince would leave him be, but he seemed to be gaining the deity's attention more and more lately; a bad omen, and one he chose not to delve into too deeply for his own sake.

_Take heed of your tone, champion. I have little of both patience and time. _It was then that he noticed how distant the voice sounded, and how alien. Usually the Daedra shaped their voices to resemble the sound of men and mer, the words now sounded oddly pitched and reverberated through his skull like an echo in a bit back an angry response with a twitch of his jaw as the only hint to his foul mood.

"I have not seen one of its like before, nor the symbol that adorns it." He confessed, both irritated and concerned. He hesitated before asking;

"Did I?" The question was held in the air by silence, he rarely brought up the mystery of his past – the shards that he could not remember. Arbos' peculiar early childhood he could remember with basic dimness of all children's memories; he was born in the mountains of The Reach and spent there the first half a decade of his life. His memories however ended there, and began again at the start of his life in the orphanage of Riften– emitting what exactly happened that put him on the other side of the province, and how he got there.

Azura seemed to contemplate his question, each second making Arbos more anxious at the obvious answer the silence provided. Finally, her voice resounded in his head;

_I will part from you, champion._

"Why?" His eyes darted up, forgetting for a moment that he was speaking with an entity with no current physical form.

_Because what will happen in this year of Nirn will demand all of my strength and yours, _Despite the solemnity of her words, her voice carried a certain tone of eagerness that did not comfort him at all. Leading him to think that perhaps the Daedra Lord of Fate and Prophecy knew something he did not.

_Of course she does. _He mused, briefly forgetting the Daedra ability to communicate through thought.

There was a laugh, both eerie and beautiful with power; it was her voice.

Arbos felt a grave shadow pass over him, unnerving him deeply while he stared down at the symbol engraved in the metal again, a strange fascination filling him, despite the anxiety that prickled his nape.

"What does this have to do with my past?" His voice did not falter, despite the racing of his thoughts.

_Everything._ And his temper flared at the obvious avoidance.

"Wha –" His snarl was interrupted by a knock, and he felt the shadow of Azura's presence lift from the room. Tension he had not noticed settled over his mind lifted. Leaving only dim resentment towards the Daedra's affect on mortals with whom they so enjoyed playing their otherworldly games.

The knocking continued but he paid it no heed, knowing that the likeliness of it being anyone but Tolfdir was slim. He threw the hood of his Arch-Mage robes over his shoulder length dark hair, rubbing at the slight stubble that covered his cheeks and jaw as he gathered supplies; potions, enchanted pieces and his weapons. He kept his Arch-Mage robes on, abiding to the gut feeling that hinted his soon to be need for all Arcane advantages, and not willing to slow himself down by carrying heavy armour just in case.

Arbos heard the door to his chambers open, the thud of sure footsteps signalling that another person was in the room.

"Arbos, what on Nirn are you doing?" Ah, so it was Tolfdir.

Arbos didn't turn to acknowledge the Master Wizard, as intent as he was to have everything packed and ready for his journey to Morthal.

He grasped the hilt of his Blade's sword. Admiring the odd but useful curve of the one sided blade, although he and the new order of the Blades were not on amiable terms due to his refusal to murder Paarthunax. He kept the sword as a remainder to both himself and them that with or without following their creed, he was the ultimate Dragon Hunter. And that despite his favouritism to the Way of the Voice and the teachings of the old Dragon above hunting down an entire species whom he shared half his blood with; he was still a Master among them.

"Arbos." Tolfdir's voice held disapproval now. Finally, he turned to face the old Master Wizard, setting the blade into its sheath tied to his belt.

"I'm travelling, Tolfdir."

"Again?" Arbos raised an eyebrow at the question, eyeing the Nord in front of him.

Tolfdir smiled grimly, raising his hands in surrender at the Arch-Mage's glare.

"Ah of course, the world cannot function without the Dragonborn."Arbos sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, prompting Tolfdir to approach him and clap the younger Breton on the shoulder with one of his pale, weathered hands.

"You should rest, my boy. Stay in Winterhold until Sundas, sit in on some lectures, work at your alchemy, let the students see you!" Although his tone was scolding, the man's warm demeanor never wavered, and eyes were lit with genial concern as always.

Arbos smiled briefly at the man before his face grew somber again,

"An Arch-Mage has his duties outside of the College, Tolfdir." He raised his hand to stop the retort that was surely about to follow, successfully silencing the Master Wizard.

"I will travel to Morthal to see Falion about the favour he has asked of me. I should return to the College in a three to four days time."

That seemed to appease the Nord, for he sighed and nodded with a chuckle of resignation, turning around and leaving Arbos in his chambers, before Tolfdir could shut the door Arbos called out,

"Master Mage!" Perusing his supplies to see if had gathered everything he caught up with the Nord by the door, grinning and slapping the carefully scrawled note of complaint into the man's hand.

"See to it that this is resolved, aye?"

Before Tolfdir could so much as glance at the paper Arbos bolted for the Hall of Elements, careful so as not to pummel over anyone on his way to the doors of the College, escaping into the courtyard of billowing snow.

Tolfdir stared after the retreating Arch-Mage until he disappeared from sight, shaking his head with bemused snort. Unfolding the letter he started towards the Hall of Attaintment to deal with some poor lad that thought mage fire could heal wounds.

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**A/N: A bit of a filler chapter but necessary.**

**Last of the Ancients – Thank you! And yes it will be my goal to answer all the questions gradually as the story continues. As for lycanthropy, I can safely say that Arbos is a man who will not volunteer his loyalty to any of the Daedric Princes willingly.**

**-thyvillain**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Over a week later, but the longest chapter so far and we are finally getting into the Dawnguard storyline! Some dialogue and characters are taken from the game, and are copyrighted to Bethesda.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own. **

* * *

Chapter 3

Overlooking the cluster of wooden houses emerging from water it was hard to consider Morthal a city. The obvious financial neglect that could have impoverished the city so was outstanding and it was odd to think how this settlement would have emerged between two great holds that always flaunted their wealth; Solitude and Whiterun.

Arbos was approaching the bridge to Morthal, keeping a weary gaze at the guards that patrolled the entrance. Having left Niro outside of the city he was now afoot, treading carefully amidst the heavy glares of both the guards and the common folk that lived there. It was a known fact that the people of Morthal were a superstitious folk; untrusting of mages and their 'peculiar' ways. That being said, hinting that you favor magicka was not considered a wise decision, but Arbos had no care for public opinion, proud of his arcane scholarship and his position despite its unpopularity his only response to the silent accusations as he crossed bridge was a cool look that generally sent the folk scurrying back to their businesses.

Stepping into the swamp city, eyeing the roughly built wooden houses overridden with moss and the numerous boats he sighed heavily, mindful not to startle the inhospitable population that kept shooting him feared glance. But what could he do when the swamp stench was bringing on a headache already; less than a minute of him entering the city?

Stopping in the middle the cobblestone road that littered a path in between the houses, despite the glares of the whole city at his back he scanned the all the similar architecture with a flash of irritability; where to find Falion?

His thoughts were interrupted by a creeping tendril of restlessness; Arbos paused in his search with careful discretion. He tried to discern the source of the building unease that so stealthily had crept through and caught him off guard. Scanning the surrounding buildings and the people whom he passed he determined that the ominous change of atmosphere had gone unnoticed. He exhaled again, this time to soothe the sudden racing of his heart, with great discipline he began to regulate his heartbeat; if there was danger, it would not do well for him to suggest weakness. Despite wishing that he appeared unconcerned he calmly placed a hand on his blade, his palm pressing against the leather hilt, fingers tightening around the covered wood above the cross guard. Despite his attempt to portray calm he was aware of the rigidity of his shoulders as he searched.

There; a soft whistle of steel against leather, the wave of disturbed air flittered past his nape so stealthy that had he not been cautious he would have dismissed it as mere breeze. He twisted his torso in a flash, drawing his sword with one sweep of his arm and blocking the dagger meant to stab him in the back. His eyes met the attacker.

Glowing eyes; with their strange orange hue stared back at him. His sword arm quivered, both with a sudden spasm of fear and the unnatural strength of his opponent.

The Undead's lips peeled back in a predatory satisfaction, a certain savage madness; revealing the carnivorous points of fangs that jutted past its lip.

"You shouldn't have come here!" A roar with a thick, Orsimer accent snapped Arbos out of his shock, using the distraction that obviously disrupted the vampire's concentration Arbos brought down the butt of his sword across its temple, eliciting a startled stutter from his attacker, unwilling to underestimate the vampire he hooked the cross guard of his blade and wrenched the dagger from its hand with a brutal shove of his boot that sent it stumbling back with an inhuman snarl.

The moment of reprieve allowed Arbos to notice the battle being fought around him, Stormcloaks and mercenaries clad in odd bound leather armor grappling with vampires, their skins pale and their features gaunt and gruesome. In their hands they harbored spells unlike any that he recognized, blood red waves that seemed to latch on to their victims and drain them dry.

He heard a snarl beside him, twisting in a flash to clasp the throat of a vampire, its savage teeth stained with blood of some victim. Arbos winced at the sharp pain of nails and fingers digging into his arm with brutal strength as it struggled for air in his grasp, he drove the point of sword through the vampire's ribcage, his gaze falling past the utterly abnormal blood that stained his blade and instead into the fray that now surrounded him. He heard a savage bark and turned, letting the dead fall from his grasp to see a dog of species he has never seen before; a giant, black furred demon with red eyes and a jaw full of sharp fangs. His left hand producing a ball of flame, fingers contracting around the fiery magicka he sent it towards the four legged beast, watching its body waste with the flames that now ate at it.

Despite that, the dog lunged towards him, only to be stopped half way by a crunching blow of a war hammer that threw it some distance away, bones shattered and body limp.

He did not glance to see who helped him, instead scanning the scene of slaughter for the nearest vampire or beast he could find. He slashed one from hip to shoulder, slicing its odd black and red robe of thick leather or cloth and staining it with dark blood that now coated his blade, a shriek escaped the wounded vampire and it turned with a savage snarl, that odd, red wave of magicka bursting from its pale palm while it swung a vicious looking axe with the other.

Arbos felt the draining sensation immediately, clouding his senses and seeping his strength like a parasite, consistent and awful. He brought his sword over his head to block the coming axe, his arm jarring from the impact as he struggled against the lull of the vampiric spell that began slowly draining his vitality. He pushed back against the axe, struggling against the vampiric strength that seemed to be just as draining as the spell. Desperate and weary, the strength seeping from his bone and evaporating at an alarming rate he threw a bolt of fire at the vampire, grinning at its agonized shriek and landing the precise swing of his sword into its forehead, cleaving the skull.

The sensation evaporated, and like a nearly drowned man bursting from the surface of the water he gasped for air, stumbling slightly as he struggled to regain his bearings. His fingers were gripping the sword in his hand with a brutal strength that turned his knuckles white, but he could not afford to falter. In place of the lethargic draining that only a moment ago filled his bones with lead, his head began pounding with the dizzying surge of adrenaline

"Damn you!" His head snapped towards the sound, seeing the Orc pummel his oddly engraved, bloodied war hammer into another man's collarbone; a silent scream and a crack of bones dulled only by the sound of the hammer denting armor. The body was thrown back, landing in the vapid mud with a startling finality.

Arbos lunged towards the Orc, gripping the giant's shoulder savagely, ignoring the warning shouts of Stormcloak guards and barely avoiding the threatening butt of the hammer to the face.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Arbos snarled, the Orc stared at the interfering mage with a calculating glare; silently judging if he were a threat or not. After a tense moment in which he seemed to ignore Arbos' glare the Orisinum man slung his giant war hammer over his back.

"He was a thrall, mage." At Arbos' puzzled expression, the lines of his tapered horn brows furrowed deeply.

"You haven't met many vampires, have you?"

Arbos was still seething; nevertheless he briefly shook his head, a mere tilt sideways enough to convey the message; he was focused on the littering of Undead bodies on the ground, the Orc nodded, unfazed by the Breton's hostility. He pointed at the crumpled heap of a corpse, the 'thrall'. Arbos merely blinked in question, struggling to make sense of the corrupted features of both the thrall and its master that rested, charred against a barrel of provisions near the nearby tavern, his expression was both concentrated and troubled.

"Sometimes when the foul creatures get bored, they decide to take on slaves for their amusement. Rob of them of their ability to think, until they are but dogs to abide by their masters." The Orc's voice was dripping with a calm abhorrence as he regarded the collection of dead bodies that now littered Morthal streets; he seemed to be ignoring the glares of the Stormcloak guards. Arbos approached the thrall, crouching beside it with one hand on his stained blade, pressing the metallic tip to the corpse's; a Nord's throat. Having moved closer to study the bloodied body, his eyes latched onto the obsessive look that even in death stayed on the thrall's face; its eyes alight with a compulsion similar to a dog's obedience towards its master. Arbos had to suppress a cringe, stifling his jaw in dislike; the expression that was so alien, so _wrong_ on a Nord face was screaming at him, the hair on his neck rising like hackles in response.

Struggling to look away he wrenched his gaze from the dead body, standing upright and turning to face the Orc in one motion, only then did he realize the extent of the commotion they had created, and the attention they had drawn. Upon finally noticing the negative attention he had garnered from the guards, seeing their rigid postures as if they prepared for him to launch on a killing spree; albeit the way they glanced at the strangely armoured Orc beside him told him they favoured neither of them. Which brought Arbos back to his original thought; an Orc in Morthal?

"You are not from here." Arbos stated, puzzled by the Orc's sudden appearance in the city. Since Ulfric Stormcloak became the High King and Skyrim seceded from the Empire, races that did not resemble humans; including races of elves, Argonians and Orcs were forced to deal with worse discrimination. The hostility that at first only seemed present at Windhelm had spread with the Stormcloaks. Now, the people of Orsinium could only be found in their remote settlements, or in guilds that stood apart from the monarchy. Arbos had only just become the Arch-Mage when a Stormblade had come to the College, holding a letter bearing the new High King's seal that demanded Arbos hand over the custody of the College's scholars and students that were not of human race and the Thalmor representative housed there. Arbos refused, sending the new High King a very clear message that the College is and will stay independent, and that all housed there answered to the College, and to the College alone. Ulfric was not pleased, but after weeks of delegation he relented, unwilling to threaten the Dragonborn and Alduin's Bane. It was a victory that cost Arbos his favor with the High King, and he knew that Ulfric now saw him as a potential threat to the new, independent Skyrim.

Said Orc grinned with a grim humour, revealing the jutting fangs that peered long past his lower lip, the Orc was a fierce, tall mer; appearing both aged and deadly.

"No, and I would not think you are either, _Arch-Mage_." Eyeing the Orc, Arbos silently dismissed the intentional stress on his title; his first impression of the mer was that he would not waste time with petty insults. The Orc in turn studied Arbos with a keen, trained eye and for the next stretch of seconds both judged each other's worth. Arbos paid close attention the intricate designs that covered the Orc's war hammer; again finding something he had not encountered before. He struggled to process the peculiar armour; noting by the bind of metal and leather that it was both sturdy and flexible. The entire situation unnerved him with his lack of knowledge, something he has prided himself with as the Head of the College. Arbos was filled with questions; why was the Orc here? Where did the vampires come from? Why did they unnerve him so? – He felt a returning throb at his temples already.

"The Dawnguard is looking for anyone willing to fight against the growing vampire menace. What do you say?" His eyes snapped towards the Orc once more, realizing he had grown wayward with his thoughts. He maintained a cool expression despite that, tilting his head to the side while his mind worked and puzzled over each word. Dawnguard? A vampire menace?

Arbos' scowl deepened, he felt a dull throb behind his eyes. The 'Dawnguard' was simple enough to decipher. But a vampire _menace_? His mind flashed to the charred body somewhere north of Winterhold; the canine teeth and glowing eyes. His eyes darted towards the vampires that were still decorating the ground.

"A vampire menace?" He saw the Orc's expression darken at the speculation in his tone, crossing his thick, burly arms he snorted, Arbos tensed despite himself, his steely gaze once more was challenged by the vampire hunter, who's Orsinium snarl had only became more gruesome.

"Everybody thinks it insignificant, right up until they find their throat being ripped out." With that, the Orc turned abruptly, the conversation was over. Arbos frowned, staying clueless was not in his nature; he _despised_ the feeling.

His mind flashed to Azura's words. To the symbol on the amulet Falion had requested he retrieve. The Breton's scowl deepened even more and he quickly moved over to one of the two dead vampires that had attacked him previously, the one with the deep laceration in his skull. With quick and nimble fingers he had gained during his time with the Thieves Guild he searched the vampire's mostly unharmed possessions. He traced the pattern of the vampire's armor, it was a thick cloth material, refusing to rip when Arbos strained the fabric, he felt the firm padding of leather that strengthened the robes from the inside and his keen mage's stare detected the tell-tale shimmer of enchantments that were deeply woven within the fabric. The armor provided physical and magicka protection; quality material, metal hoops and binds lined it, portraying it as armour instead of mere formal robes. They were of far better quality than those given in his College. He used his plain, steel dagger to cut at the coin purse tie to a belt, he stored it and, guided by curiosity he used the end of his dagger to shift the vampire's head sideways, slicing at the collar of the vampiric armor he stared at the exposed pale flesh, staring at ghastly blue veins that webbed under the skin and the glossy, aged scar tissue that held the mark of a gruesome bite.

So this was once an elf, an Altmer or Dunmer – it was hard to recognize which exactly due to the pale, drawn skin that had lacked color even before Arbos cleaved its skull in half. The dark blood had coated one side of the vampire's face, and he refused to touch the liquid; despite its potential in Alchemy. No, he could touch the creature no more than he could be pleasant to one; his very being resisted it. Studying the painful looking scar tissue at its throat he could deduce that it was at one point ripped to shreds, the scarring was brutal. His gaze drifted down until it latched on with a sudden severity, there, where a leather sash was fastened over the shoulder, imprinted on it was the symbol. With lightning speed he had the amulet in his hand, gripping it tightly. He held the two symbols beside each other, wondering at their likeness.

_Does it not look familiar?_ Azura's question ringed in his mind, the Daedric Prince had not spoken with Arbos since he left the College to travel here, he pressed a hand to his temple, wincing at the pounding that battered the inside of his skull. The eerie familiarity of her words settled a chill into the very marrow of his bones. His intense stare outlined every detail, seeking something, _anything _that might bring about his great revelation – it did not come. His disappointment, anger steeled his resolve, and his jaw clenched.

" You, Orc!" The horned mer turned around, arching a thick, white eye brow in question.

Arbos felt his lip twitch up in a grim amusement; wondering if it was Hircine who sought his personal amusement by forcing the Breton to undertake another blind chase. Whatever Divine it might be, or none at all, his eyes landed on the symbol that would drive him on a wild hunt all across Skyrim. Where to start?

"Say, where would I find this Dawnguard?"

He felt a subtle shift, not on the regular plain of existence but beyond; far deeper. An inkling feeling whispering promises of change that filled him the moment the question had left his lips. It was the moment he felt his life take a turn.

He could only pray it was in the better direction.

"Where did you get this?" Arbos was striding towards the Redguard mage; his grey eyes darkened with severity and he tossed the amulet that had caused him so much strife onto a parchment laden table, the thin chain glinted in the light of candles; it was dusk.

Falion looked up at the question, black eyes snapping up from a purple bound book of conjuration onto the artifact that now lay within his grasp. He set the book down and plucked the amulet from the table, clutching at it possessively, the Redguard did not show much emotion, but Arbos could see the pleased glint in his eyes as he studied the amulet, with all the wonder of a scholar.

As much as Arbos' could sympathize with appreciating historical anomalies that were artifacts, his impatience grew. He crossed his arms stiffly and leaned against the entry doorway, his eyes bore into the aged Redguard, who seemed so lost in concentration. As distant as Falion seemed however, he was not oblivious and he noted the angered rigidity of the Dragonborn's shoulders and the white knuckles of his hands as he stuffed them into his sides. He contemplated the Breton with a stony expression, brushing his greying beard that contrasted against his dark skin, finally when Arbos' seemed about to snap he shut his book and stood, resting upon the tabletop and in its stead he grasped the amulet by its silver chain and lifted it, watching the sheen of metal against candle flame flicker and highlight the cryptic symbol at its back.

"I know many things. I studied things beyond the reach of most humans..." He stated, his to-the-point voice softening a fraction in reminisce, he cradled the amulet in the palm of his hand, studying it intently. Arbos in turn watched Falion in confusion. Falion has not looked up from the artifact, unwilling to relent in his search of answers that may be hidden within the ruby.

Finally, the Redguard Necromancer looked up, his gaze piercing the Breton's own puzzled glare, his voice grew harsher,

"I walked through the planes of Oblivion, seen things I should not see – " He was interrupted by Arbos,

"Yes, the College is aware of your dabbling with Necromancy, it is the reason you were _expelled._ - However, "

The Dragonborn mentioned dryly, only the slight twitch of his jaw spoke of his frustration now, that and the slow descent of his tone into an octave lower as he stressed his next words,

"Where did you get - this?" He gestured towards the amulet with a jerk of his hand.

Arbos watched as Falion's hand clenched brutally around the metal, his expression had darkened considerably, seemingly from the reminder of his unfortunate circumstance with the College of Winterhold. Then his expression cleared, and he tossed the amulet to Arbos who, caught by surprise, trapped it rather clumsily in his hand, the Breton felt the headache returning from earlier and he refrained from rubbing his forehead irritably.

Falion walked over to one of his heavily occupied shelves, the contents ranging from books to potions to skulls. His back was to Arbos, so he could not study his expression; but by the stiffness of the Redguard's back he could guess that the mage was troubled.

"You know of my study of vampires." He stated, it was not a question and Arbos felt no need to respond. He remained silent.

"A month ago, a vampire arrived in Morthal, asking me for a cure against his _illness_. I received this amulet as payment." Arbos had finally received a straight answer, but it did not absolve him of his worries.

"Do you know where the vampire was from?" The vampires he had seen were unlike any he had fought before, vampires were usually a disorganized band of trouble makers, unlike the ones who wore finely crafted armour, and carried a sigil; for that is Arbos' deduction on what the symbol was, etched onto the vampires' clothing and on a vampiric artifact, a peculiar coincidence that gives little other option.

Falion shook his head,

"No, and you cannot ask him now, the last I heard of him he had fled Skyrim, fearing the prosecution of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Apparently he had caused them quite a bit of trouble." The Redguard's voice held a bit of grim humour. But Arbos did not share in his comedy, instead his mind was elsewhere.

Moving quickly he grabbed a piece of charcoal from a small bag at his belt and snatched a roll of parchment from the table, ignoring the protest of the mage as he draped the parchment over the amulet and began brushing a coat of charcoal over the white surface, careful to outline all the needed details of the symbol.

"I will need the tome you promised me, I have kept my end of the bargain." The Redguard scowled briefly, but nonetheless picked a heavy bound book from the shelf, handing it over to Arbos who had tucked the piece of parchment into his Arch-Mage robes, taking the tome with great care, brushing the cover with a sweep of his hand carefully he studied the symbol for conjuration that was sketched onto the cover. He gathered his meager belongings, leaving the amulet itself to Falion and left the Necromancer's house.

It was dark when he entered the streets, the only light were the flickering of torches of the marching Stormcloaks and candlelight streaming from the windows that dotted the otherwise dark, gloomy place. He did not travel that night, instead he rented a room at Moorside Inn. It was a plain, undecorated room but would work well enough for one night, and Arbos was not as meticulous as to ignore the advantage of even sleeping on a mattress instead of a bedroll on the cold Skyrim terrain. Feeling tired both in body and mind he resisted the whispers of sleep that tempted his mind, determined and with the day's events replaying over and over again he sat at a sturdy desk in the corner of the room, he filtered out his memories, searching for something he might have overlooked, meanwhile he took out the parchment and reached for quill and ink. On the parchment he penned a note to Urag gro-Shub, willing his Keeper of the Arcanaeum to search his library for any mention of the strange symbol he had etched in charcoal, to be ready when Arbos returned to the College. He sealed the note with candle wax and spoke to a courier who was visiting the tavern, encouraged by some septims the man swore to deliver the letter to the College of Winterhold.

By the time Arbos had finished, his head was filled with cotton and his eyes were blurry and red from lack of sleep. When finally his head hit the crude feather pillow he could barely keep awake. He resigned to sleep soon after.

* * *

**A/N: The story is finally starting to pick up the pace! Unfortunately we won't be seeing Serana in the next chapter, but she will make her grand entrance soon. I will be following the plotline of the game in the beginning; however it will quite quickly start taking on a somewhat different turn. **

**And I value the correct interpretation of Serana very much, Last of the Ancients. I believe she has one of the best background stories and that Bethesda did not give her character quite enough credit in the Dawnguard Add-On.**

**-thyvillain**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: A rather lengthy chapter to follow. Thank you Last of the Ancients! Believe it or not a lengthy thought process is my favourite type of review, because it shows the reader was inspired to **_**think**_** by the author. And isn't that one of the main purposes behind a story?**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own. **

**On to the story!**

* * *

Chapter 4

Arbos pressed the wolf's maw to the ground, his other hand wrapping around the shaft of the arrow and easing it out of the canine's left temple. He was careful to not damage the golden, metallic tip as he drew it out of the pierced flesh and bone, elven arrows were difficult to attain after Ulfric banished the Thalmor from Skyrim, and Arbos took care to gather each one he could salvage. Wiping the blood against the side of his boot he gathered the arrows into his quiver, tightening the buckled strap that holds the bag of arrows between his shoulder blades.

He dusted off his Arch-Mage robes and drew his hood further to block the sun from his eyes; it was late in the afternoon. He had departed from Morthal three days ago and had followed the road to Riften, from where he then pushed on to the pebbled roads of the Rift, towards the border between Skyrim and Morrowind, then farther still to Fort Dawnguard as was marked by Durak on his map. The Orsimer member of the Dawnguard had told Arbos of a cave, a crack in one of the Rift Mountains that, in its center; harbored the Dayspring canyon and the fort itself.

He heard a whine, a wretched sound that came from behind him; he reached over his shoulder and nocked an arrow, pulling the string of his bow taut as he turned.

It was Niro. Arbos frowned; dismayed. The Nordic horse was on the ground, bite marks and lacerations at the legs and chest were deep and bleeding heavily. White foam coated the stallion's mouth and his eyes were panicked as he scrambled on the rough ground of the trail. Arbos loosened his grip on the bow and approached his panicking companion, "Niro..." He reached towards the stallion, only to jerk back at the flailing hooves that warned him away, Arbos flinched and stepped back, his expression pained though he was not struck.

A sense of hopelessness tugged at his heart, despite having owned the horse for only a year or so he had grown attached to his one constant travelling companion.

Arbos was, and probably always will be solitary, a lonesome traveler and adventurer. Beginning with his childhood in an orphanage, set apart by his wayward heritage and Forsworn culture from the rest. And even now, despite his post at the College of Winterhold, and his periodic dalliances with other guilds in Skyrim like his membership in the Thieves' Guild, he always preferred to complete his missions alone.

He crouched nearby, unwilling to abandon his dying steed, whose breathing was rough, interrupted by neighing and shrieks as the horse struggled to stand, Arbos slowly reached his hand forward again, his breathing and gaze level, calm despite the sadness that now stained his thoughts.

Niro was now laying still, an occasional twitch of a muscled leg or a snort the only interruption to the heavy, panicked breathing of the horse as the blood fled faster. Arbos met the stallion's gaze, willing to instill his own composure into the beast, as artificial as it was. His palm met the rough, brown fur of the horse's neck, rubbing the beast comfortingly. Arbos' face was composed, still calm even as he reached with his other hand to the dagger at his belt.

"Good boy, Niro..." He patted the beast's neck, holding the dagger hidden from the horse. Arbos sighed, he could not heal him, the wounds were too numerous and the blood loss too great. He could not save him, should not let his companion suffer longer, "Good boy." He brought the dagger down.

A final shriek escaped the stallion, he struggled with his hooves again; despite his failing strength. But Arbos' aim was true and Niro's big, dark eyes had closed. The labored breathing stopped.

Arbos exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding, the arm that held the dagger trembled, as unsteady as his breathing. He stroked the horse's cheek, "I'm sorry." It was a quiet whisper, caused by a moment of weakness, recollection. It did not last.

He pulled the knife free, and hooked it to his belt again; he unsaddled the dead horse and gathered his meager supplies, slinging it over his shoulder along with his bow, the smell of a carcass will attract predators far more dangerous than wolves. The entrance to the canyon should be close by, just down the road. He looked back once at his horse, making sure to slam the heel of his boot into one of the dead wolves that were lying nearby; it did not erase his sudden melancholy mood, but it felt _better_.

He followed the old trail until the sun began to set, and he began to grow nervous, he did not dare to travel during the night. Nor was it any better to camp in the woods either with the sudden worry of vampires stretching from Morthal to Riften. He had traveled for a quarter of an hour before he finally found the giant crack in the base of the mountain that the road was passing by. He approached, brushing apart the bushes and other greenery to reach the cave's entrance, the darkness within did not look at all promising. Arbos looked behind him, watching as the sun's glow diminished more and more, the moons were already out, as if to pester the sun to hurry, he could not turn back now.

With a new sense of urgency he summoned a sphere of white light, caging it within his hand as he entered the cave, it was a slow progress within the small passageway as he continued forward and little space to move, so little that his back and chest both brushed against the hard, jagged, damp walls on either side and he often had to maneuver the bow at his back when it caught on the particularly sharper stones. He could hear the trickle of water somewhere in the echoing passage; he felt cool drops splatter on his forehead and his hair. He felt the moss against his fingertips as he eased his way through the darkness, following the streak of light that looked so distant in front of him.

He trudged on for a while, although time seemed insignificant when he felt encased in darkness, stumbling with his footing on the uneven, unseen the path. And the only solace was the light in his hand; which he dimmed down to inspect the distant glow in front of him, giving perspective to the distance. He looked behind him, leaning his back against the damp wall now partially covered with lush moss; he could not see the light of the cave's entrance anymore. He exhaled, for once noting the wisp of fog that was his breath; it was carried away by a gust of wind, pushing him onward towards the light, the breeze encouraged him, providing him with fresh, clean air that spoke of an exit. He was so much closer now, the moss soothed his scabbed fingers, his hair and stubble were damp from brushing against the vegetation, and the freshness of it quieted his unease. The light was close now; he heard amidst the whispers of the breeze the rumble of water, he stretched his arm out in front of him, reaching forward at the glimpses of something beyond the filtered light that stung his eyes after his time in darkness.

Finally, he squeezed through the crack illuminated by light and his eyes squinted, staring up to study the ravine of rock and snow, the path was still narrow but wider than the one he had just passed through; he watched some flakes of snow drifting calmly, only sometimes disturbed by a breeze that battered at the cavern now behind him. He walked on, studying the rock formations and wondering how far he should travel before he finds Fort Dawnguard, the light was fading quickly, even on this hidden valley.

Gradually as he walked, Arbos began to notice grass growing through the snow, trees bearing leaves growing amongst the pines; the snow was receding as he walked, until he finally turned a corner in the rocky maze and stepped into the Dayspring canyon with a certain amount of wonder. It was a sight to see, the expanse of land riddled with color, from the bushes, grass and the trees to the river that drifted past a mighty glacier, running farther into a lake. In the far distance he could just make out faded towers, covered by the mist that gathered from the waterfalls of gathered, melted water. It drifted amongst the trees and the clear, running river.

Arbos stepped onto a rundown pathway. Brambles, tall grasses and trees framing the road leading towards the tell tale shadow of Fort Dawnguard in the distance.

He followed the road, steeling himself from the awe of the wondrous environment guarded by mountains all around with cautious discipline. He slipped his bow off his shoulder, gathering two arrows to hold parallel to the bow's grip should he need them. Arbos quickened his pace, well aware of the coming night; the moons had gained their fiery colors, mimicking the eyes of all the creatures that favoured them to the healthy glow of sunlight. He saw the distinct shape of a person within the mist and slowed, keeping a keen eye on the man and a grip on his bow.

The man, a Nord with fair hair and a young face, turned around to greet Arbos.

"Oh, hey there!" Arbos was initially startled by the openness of the man's face, his posture. The way he fidgeted with his plain farmer's clothing, the awed look on his young face as he noticed the Breton's bow, or was he staring at Dragonbane? Arbos fought to keep a cool expression; unnerved by the sheer naivety of the man, his fingers tightened around the hold of his bow, digging into the arrows that still rested on the length of worn leather.

The Nord seemed oblivious to the tension, although he might have fidgeted a little more than he was before, hard to tell since he was nervous even prior to Arbos' approach. Arbos tilted his head to the side with grim curiosity, the hood of mage's robes cloaking his intent study; the clothing, an old axe – The boy wasn't joining the Dawnguard, was he?

"You here to join the Dawnguard, too?" _He was. _

Arbos could almost hear the Divines laughing.

He could feel a twitch in his jaw, his lips thinning in response and that dark frown won over. He fought the sudden flare of aggravation, and fought to silence any reaction that might unnerve the Nord, he was trembling enough without his help. After a moment to regain his composure, the Breton dipped his head slowly, unable to do much else that might not result in him turning around and having Aranea Ienith on his case, the woman could be as terrifying as her patron deity. Azura _wanted_ him here, and he was sure of that; she has not bothered him since her clever coercion at the College. He would rather not think of the consequences of her displeasure, her champion or not. _And_, he added to himself, _the answers lie here_.

"Can I walk up with you?" His head snapped up, staring at the Nord. If the hood was not keeping his expression in shadow, the boy would have _run_.

His silence must have communicated some of his displeasure, for the Nord jumped to elaborate, stumbling over words clumsily. "Truth is I'm a little nervous. I've never done anything like this before."

Arbos fought the urge to grimace, his eyes may have been cloaked but his mouth was not, and he had no wish to scare away the Nord, as clueless as he seemed, Arbos could not help but feel a marginal amount of pity. That sympathetic emotion halted all the different variations of rebuke that had accumulated in Arbos' mind, some were quite clever and he mourned the loss of satisfaction that his wit could merit, but nonetheless held his tongue. If the Dawnguard were desperate enough to openly recruit, then they needed anyone they can get. So he kept his peace, or what little was left of it.

He sighed and motioned towards the road in front of them, resuming his pace, "Well, let us go then." The Nord hurried after him.

They had not been walking for longer than a few minutes when Arbos noticed the Nord's attention was once again turned from the surroundings and towards him, the man would look at him, open his mouth and then glance away. Finally when Arbos was about to snap, the Nord spoke up.

"I'm Agmaer by the way, what's your name?"

He slung his bow back over his shoulder, giving the Nord a sidelong glance as they walked; the Nord appeared genuinely curious "Arbos."

Agmaer seem to find it humorous, "Arbos...what kind of name is Arbos?" The Breton felt his temper flare at the laughter in his voice. The amusement warped in his eardrums, echoed in his mind and speared into an old wound, long ago left to fester.

_There was laughter of children; they surrounded him, pointing at him as he stood in the cramped room of their dorm. They were chanting, laughing at _him_. He was a child; they found him during the night before, left in front of the orphanage._

_The headmistress was there, she was so angry. _

"What kind of name is Agmaer?" He spat, Agmaer looked startled as the Breton stopped right in front of him, his green eyes flashing, his hands were balled into fists and he looked ready to pummel the Nord straight into Oblivion.

"Eh, you're right..." Agmaer stammered, laughing weakly, his face paled considerably as he shrunk away from the Breton's glare. "Arbos...Arbos's a good name."

Arbos turned, facing the running river, the mountains beyond it. His anger was useless, needless and he let it drain, leaving behind only the after taste of bitterness. His hands unclenched, hanging by his sides and he turned his head. Arbos looked at the nervous Nord and another flavour coated his thoughts to mingle with the other; guilt.

He shot the man a half smile, tugging his hood farther over his face as if to block the emotions should they threaten to seep into his words "Agmaer's not so bad, either."

Agmaer looked at him with a startling amount of relief, grinned and continued walking. Arbos fought a smirk in response; it was hard not to appreciate light heartedness of the Nord, and his naive ability to forgive so easily. His enthusiasm dimmed considerably when he considered why a character such as him would wish to join the vampire hunters? He dismissed the thought of asking Agmaer, it did not concern him in the least.

No one spoke for a time.

He appreciated the silence that reigned, finding relief in the fact that Nord was too distracted with the wondrous sights of the canyon to talk. Arbos looked up, his eye catching the sight. Finally, the last streams of light from the diminishing sun had cast a glow on the standing fort in front of them. The structure of Fort Dawnguard was unlike any he had seen in Skyrim, bigger, grander. Its architecture far more sophisticated than the common Nordic buildings; it probably took a fortune to build. Who would have commissioned the fort in the first place, and why?

It seemed to have taken Agmaer longer to notice the looming, castle like fort, "That must be it. Fort Dawnguard...Wow. Bigger than I expected."

Arbos did not bother hide his smirk at the understatement.

* * *

He heard the thud of metal piercing wood; it was a sound familiar to Arbos – arrow piercing its target. But it was odd, different; the thwack of the arrow hitting its target was louder and more definite. Whatever is being used to propel the arrow must be far more powerful than the standard bow.

They neared the entrance to the Fort Dawnguard and Arbos followed the sound to a roughly made practice field, he vaguely heard Agmaer behind him. Within the court yard before the entrance to the fort, guarded by wooden outposts, he noticed the assortment of barrels and crates that were stacked haphazardly all around; hinting that the fort was only starting to be fortified after some time of neglect.

Agmaer spoke up beside him, "This place looks almost deserted." Arbos nodded his agreement distractedly, his attention directed at studying the fresh looking spiked fence that guarded the path to the fort. The fence was made out of wood, carved and tipped from nearby trees, the littering stumps left as testament.

As the road curved around one of the scouting towers, connected to the main body of the building by a looming bridge he saw the familiar, robust build of the Orsimer; it was Durak. In his hands he held a weapon unlike he has ever seen before, a machine with a taut string and smaller arrows. It was odd, but looked effective if judged by the deep indents in wood of a cut down tree. The Orc's finger grazed the lever of the weapon that acted as the trigger, and the shorter, thicker arrow flew forward in a flash. Arbos separated from the younger Nord to approach the Orc, weary of startling the Dawnguard while he wielded such a weapon; although should he estimate the wealth of experience the Orc had with warfare, he would guess that Durak had heard him already.

Right on cue, Durak turned, his Orsimer snarl lightening into what should be described as a pleased expression for an Orc, once he recognized Arbos.

"Well, well. You made it. Good." His meaty hand cuffed the Breton's shoulder, propping his queer looking bow against his armoured shoulder. Arbos' robe clad shoulders stiffened at the Orsimer's welcome, his lips thinning in displeasure beneath his hood. The reaction did not go unnoticed although Durak did not comment, merely motioned towards the fort's entrance with a jerk of his head. "Isran's in the fort. He'll get you sorted."

Arbos nodded his thanks, but stopped mid turn; surveying the queer weapon once again, he looked back at the Orsimer who was dabbling with its mechanics with a practiced hand, pressing the string back to lock into place and picking one of the shorter arrows from the quiver at his belt, placing it onto the bow, "What is that you are shooting?" Durak turned with a knowing gleam in his eye.

"Never seen a crossbow before, eh?" Arbos shook his head.

The Orc was unsurprised. "It is kind of a Dawnguard speciality, nothing better for putting down vampires." He approached a crate of supplies, grasping the stock of a crossbow and drawing it out of its container. "Here, you'll want to know how to use one."

Arbos took the crossbow as it was offered, studying the carved furrows and the main slot in the middle of the tiller. Durak handed him the bag of arrows, "Bolts." He explained with his gruff accent, and then pointed at the tree stump that provided a target. "How good of an archer are you?"

"Descent." Arbos admitted, shooting the Orc a frown despite turning to face his target. He placed the smooth, cushioned end of the stock at his right shoulder, recalling the Orsimer's previous stance. He pointed at the target and pressed the lever.

He did not expect the force of the recoil, wincing as it jarred his shoulder slightly. The bolt skimmed the bark, but did not penetrate the wood – he missed.

His hand tightened around the tiller in frustration, Durak said nothing; watching the Breton as he drew the string back and pressed another bolt to the slot. Arbos drew the crossbow to his shoulder again, delving into his experience with archery. He did not lie to the Orc; he favoured the bow often when stealth was needed. This was just a bow attached to a crude stick. A smaller bow, but a bow nonetheless.

He zeroed in on the target, took a breath and pressed the lever again. This time he expected the recoil, it did not distract him from his aim. The bolt flew and impaled the bark, Arbos frowned – it was not where he intended it to strike.

Durak slapped the Breton's back again, "Better." When Arbos made to return the crossbow, the Orc shook his head. "Keep it."

Arbos tied the quiver of bolts to his belt and secured the crossbow over his back, giving the Orsimer a thankful nod.

* * *

When he entered the fort, the first thing he noticed was the giant, illuminated space of the main foyer. The place looked newly inhabited, in a certain state of disrepair and almost empty save for a few barrels and crates that were left around the circular room, decorated by a few flags of the Dawnguard and the spiraling spider webs that took up the rest of the space. Everything was made of chiseled stone, and the light that was filtered past the openings unapparent at first glance gave the main lobby a haunting glow.

Agmaer, who had nervously waited for him during his conversation with Durak was now a step behind him, fumbling with the axe that hung from his belt. Arbos frowned, pinning the Nord with a glare, "Cut it out." His voice was just a touch louder than a whisper, but warning enough. Agmaer dropped his hands uselessly to his sides with a nervous, apologetic smile. Arbos sighed, and looked back towards the two men that stood in the centre of the foyer; they seemed to be locked in a heated argument.

The Redguard, bearing the same armour as the rest of the Dawnguard and a war hammer at his back seemed on the verge of snapping, his glare was fierce.

"Why are you here, Tolan? The Vigilants and I were finished with each other a long time ago."

Arbos halted some distance away from the discussion, he felt something collide with his back and heard Agmaer's "Oomf" as the Nord stumbled, had Arbos been paying less attention to the argument between the Dawnguard and the Vigilant he would have rolled his eyes. But, his attention was piqued and he aptly studied the two quarrelling men, standing a few steps behind the Vigilant who appeared stressed with desperation.

"The Vigilants are under attack everywhere, you know that!" Though Arbos could not see Tolan's face, by voice alone he could imagine a nasty grimace, as if vampires themselves were trying to rip his throat, "The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed." Arbos saw the flicker of smugness in the Redguard's stance,

"And now you are running for safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?" His voice was as calm and collected as it was authoritative, but it spoke of great anger. The Redguard held a strong voice, charismatic; was this Isran? Arbos shifted slightly, crossing his arms over his torso and tucking his chin closer to his chest, studying the man with keen eyes underneath his hood. The Redguard seemed to take no notice of anyone other than the Vigilant in the room. He heard steps behind him and glanced over to Agmaer, who in his great idiocy was taking hesitant steps towards arguing duo. Arbos felt a muscle in his jaw twitch at the fool, did he not realize this was important? Arbos' handed lashed out to grab the Nord by his arm, keeping him a good distance away from the discussion. His glare quieted the man's protests.

"...Keeper Carcette is dead. The Hall of the Vigilants...everyone." He pinned the back of the Vigilant's head with an alarmed stare, the Hall of the Vigilants?

Tolan's back was tensed, and even from his distance Arbos could see his hands clenching, as if searching to tear something apart. His voice was mixture of sadness and anger, "You were right we were wrong. Is that not enough for you?" Tolan took a step towards the Dawnguard, the last part coming out louder, and it echoed within the great empty space of the hall, carrying the Vigilant's despair for his lost Order. Arbos felt a flicker of unease that seemed to mirror Isran's look, which also contained a certain amount of remorse. "I _am_ sorry, you know."It seemed that was all he was going to say, because Isran's stare shifted a fraction away from Tolan, landing on Arbos as he stood in the back, away from the light that illuminated the room, his Arch-Mage hood pulled over his head.

"So who are you? What do you want?" The Redguard scrutinized Arbos with keen, dangerous eyes. The glare made the Breton uneasy, but he drew himself up, holding his hands in front of him, assuming that the hood was what made the Redguard so wary – vampires wore cloaks to cover their skin, and their eyes. He slowly moved his hands to slip the hood off, blinking at the light that shone down from the upper levels of the fort.

Isran's stance eased somewhat, which was not much considering the daggers he was glaring before. Arbos kept his voice level, civil in his attempt to put the hostile man at ease. "I heard you were looking for vampire hunters."He stepped into light completely, stopping in between the cautious Vigilant and Dawnguard. He heard a shuffle of Agmaer's steps behind him.

True enough, Isran had relaxed somewhat although his demeanor was still commanding, unrelenting. He seemed to accept Arbos' response "You heard right." He confirmed, "I'm glad the word is finally starting to get around. But that means it won't be long before the vampire start to take notice." _You think they have not already?_

"What can I do to help?" Isran turned slightly towards Tolan, studying the Vigilant. Arbos followed the Dawnguard's stare. Tolan watched Isran warily.

Isran's heavy sigh brought Arbos' attention back to him, the Redguard met his gaze. "Tolan was just telling me about some cave that the Vigilants were poking around in." He threw Tolan a disapproving look, Tolan seemed conflicted between glowering at the Dawnguard and wallowing in his sorrows. "Seemed to think it was related to these recent vampire attacks."

He turned towards the Tolan again, "What was it, Dimhollow?"

The Vigilant nodded, "Yes, Dimhollow Crypt." His voice lowered slightly, as did his gaze that was now so fixated on the slabs of stone under his boots. "Brother Adalvald was sure it held some long lost vampire artifact of some kind. We didn't listen to him anymore than we did Isran, he was at the Hall when it was attacked."

"That's good enough for me."He looked back at Arbos, "Go see what they were looking for in this Dimhollow Crypt. With any luck, they'll still be there. Feel free to take anything you might use, it's not much, but." He eyed the Arch-Mage robes, a frown of something akin to disapproval prominent. Arbos tilted his head in question.

"You might want to get yourself some real armour, Arch-Mage." The Breton frowned,

"Why is that?"

Isran tapped the bind of leather at his neck, "Your robes won't protect you from vampires – " Arbos felt a flare of annoyance.

"Nor will they protect your College." It was Tolan who interrupted him; Arbos stared at the Vigilant, a grim wave of comprehension subduing his temper. The vampires destroyed the Hall of the Vigilants, if they were to be attacked by the Arch-Mage, what would stop them from ransacking the College the same way? He felt apprehension; trepidation as he began to realize the magnitude of what he was doing. This was an organized band of vampires, they _were _strategic.

_The answers lie here_. He reminded himself, clinging to the thought; the justification for his actions. He steeled himself,

"I will find the armour." He acquiesced. _Why am I doing this?_

Tolan approached him, interrupting him from his hesitation. "I'll meet you at Dimhollow, it's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades." Arbos frowned, but it was mild compared to the glare that Isran shot the Vigilant.

"Tolan, I don't think that's a good idea." The Redguard's voice was firm, unyielding. But Tolan seemed to muster a glare with the same amount of resolve. He seemed determined to avenge his comrades. _Desperate for a purpose,_ Arbos corrected himself, studying the Vigilant intently, the man seemed hell bent on meeting his own end.

"I _am_ going to Dimhollow Crypt." He turned to Arbos again, whose brows were furrowed in a deep frown. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you."

Arbos looked to Isran, it was not his decision to make. After an exchange of dangerous glares from both the Vigilant and the Dawnguard Isran sighed, waving his hand dismissively, "So be it."

Arbos relented, nodding towards Tolan who then turned and began walking towards the heavy doors of the Fort Dawnguard's entrance, the Breton started after the Vigilant, confused. He was going _now_? "The night has fallen; we should travel on the morrow." Tolan scowled, "No, I will meet you there."

Arbos stopped, staring after the retreating back of the Vigilant. He couldn't help but voice his thoughts, "Are you going to your death?"

There was a quiet murmur from the retreating Nord that sounded remarkably close to "Perhaps I am."

Arbos lent against the doors jarred open, his arms crossed and his fingers digging into his forearms as he watched the defeated man march to his death. He felt a tendril of anger clutching at him with the same intensity as his fingers dug into his arms, anger at the vampires, those who massacred an entire Order that stood against Daedric schemes, _Azura, why am I here?_

He leant his head against the wooden doors, feeling the rough splinters dig into his forehead and cheek. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hand when he turned to look back into the foyer; Agmaer was speaking with Isran – his stammering has worsened.

He should find a place to sleep for the night, and anything he could salvage that might prove more useful than the suicidal Vigilant that was already on his way to the Crypt. On his way into the hall stemming from the main lobby Arbos heard Isran's rough chuckle,

""My pa's axe", Stendarr preserve us."

Stepping further into the dim halls of Fort Dawnguard, studying their state of disrepair he felt himself smile grimly. If Stendarr could not preserve his own followers, what chance did they have?

* * *

He knew it was near midnight, it was dark in the halls; the lonely sputtering candles providing the only light in the Dawnguard sleeping quarters. The room consisted of a few scattered cots surrounded by rabble, candles standing where they will not be tripped over. After he was assigned his task by Isran, Arbos took care to study the inner lay out of the castle styled fort. Traveling its winding stairways and fortified balconies he sought out the supplies he should need on his journey, and where he might rest before then.

Now he lay on a cramped, standard cot – the first one he found when he entered the quarters. A headache was creeping into the inside of his skull, he had found the Dawnguard armour that was still packaged within crates before his retrieval; it was a sturdy, bound leather with metallic plates within the woven fabric, the shoulder pad was covered with a sheet of metal and the weight of the cuirass was lighter than he expected it to be, it was not like his Arch-Mage robes, but a good enough replacement.

At the thought of his College he again began to consider the predicament he is placing the Arcane Institute in intentionally, his eyes were still shut as he rested on the cot, the rough frame draped only in some fur was grinding into his shoulder blades uncomfortably, and he shifted, uneasy.

His priorities should rest with the College of Winterhold, his College. And it did, until now when Arbos could feel his loyalties beginning to shift. The desperate search for answers that even now, without his notice lead him to make decisions that as an Arch-Mage he should not have considered but now could only reflect on in bemusement. He was doing things that would protect the College, but he wasn't doing _everything_ – and that was what had kept him up that night, despite his body's demand for sleep.

The thoughts occupied and jumped inside his head, he could almost hear the clamour they made. He threw his arm over his face to block out the noises, _wait_.

Something hit his cot, hard. His eyes flew open and all he could see was a blur of the ceiling, a boot and the ground, he tumbled as the bed was tilted and tipped. He took a moment to absorb how exactly he ended up on the cold floor when he was resting, thinking just seconds ago. He leant on his elbow, looking up.

A Bosmeri woman was standing in front of him, one of her sharp eyebrows raised in disapproval and her arms crossed. She wore the armour similar to his own, although he could not see a weapon on her.

Arbos glared at her, still in his semi upright position on the ground, leaning against his propped arm. "What..." He noticed Agmaer behind her, his gaze narrowed and he felt his composure return his voice regained his biting tone, "What in Oblivion was that for?" He hissed.

She still held her eye brow way up there, but then her demeanor lightened visibly, she looked amused "I had the cot first." She stood there, seemingly satisfied with her explanation, he scowled in response, but there was a flicker of amusement that forbade him from completely snapping at the Bosmer, the absurdity of the situation seemed to disarm his usually brittle temper.

"And you could not bother to inform me, _civilly_?" He asked drily.

She shrugged nonchalantly, "I informed you in the most effective way possible." He snorted unappreciatively and she rolled her eyes and offered him a hand up, he took it with a grunt of thanks. "I'm Beleval and this is Agmaer." Arbos saw Agmaer with a crossbow, looking as tired as Arbos himself felt.

"Yes, Agmaer and I are acquainted." He noted, shooting a nasty look towards the man who appeared to be trying to restrain his mirth Arbos' situation. The look quelled him and Arbos swatted at a cob web that clung to his armor, satisfied. "My name is Arbos."

Beleval looked at him curiously, "A Breton?" He nodded, his expression became guarded.

She did not pry farther, much to Arbos' slim relief, but turned around to Agmaer who was standing with trepidation written all over his face. She clapped him on the shoulder, pointing at the cot in the corner of the room, "This is the last cot." She shot Arbos an amused look that he pointedly ignored.

Agmaer looked grateful and Beleval shooed him off to the cot with that same amused look. Meanwhile Arbos looked about to find himself a place to sleep, he zeroed in on a pile of furs in a corner near Agmaer's cot, closest to the entryway of the sleeping quarters. They looked recently unpacked, stacked in a neat pile – neat until he landed there, the soft furs, bear, wolf and sabrecat and whatever else you could find in the Rift covering him expertly. Beleval shot him a look, "Really?" He pointedly ignored that, too. Making himself comfortable in the pelts, or as comfortable as one could be trying to sleep in stiff armour. Both Beleval and Agmaer left him to his thoughts after that.

He listened to them talk of many things thought his eyes were closed, he noticed Agmaer slowly gaining some confidence in their conversations; drawn out by Beleval's keen, intentional questions. She seemed to harbour a lot of experience with treating the newer, greener members of the Dawnguard.

He rested on the soft fur, his hand curling around the smooth, warm bristles of the animal pelts; the distant familiarity of it lulled him to sleep. He was defenceless against the memories that followed him into sleep, amidst the soon fading conversations of the Bosmer and Nord. The distant sounds of laughter submerged him into a time, long ago, but not long enough, there was laughter -

_Laughter of children; they surrounded him, pointing at him as he stood in the cramped room of their dorm. They were chanting, laughing at _him_. He was a child; they found him during the night before, left in front of the orphanage._

_The headmistress was there, she was so angry. _

_They had taken away his clothing, given him odd, new ones that covered his arms and stomach and his legs. They itched, he didn't want those clothes. He wanted his old clothes. He wanted the fur; fur didn't hurt, didn't irritate his torso, and didn't make him want to scratch his legs, his arms. He was taking off the odd, itchy clothing. He tugged at the constricting cloth desperately when she saw him, guided by the cruel laughter of the other children._

_The children were laughing at _him_, because he was the child of the wild men that eat raw meat and dress in bones, the child of the mad men that the Empire had finally driven to their knees, the child of the Witchmen who were just another conquest to Cyrodill. _

_Because he was the child of the Forsworn._

* * *

**A/N: So, Arbos has joined the Dawnguard and is being sent off to the Dimhollow crypt, and we got to see a small glimpse of his early life - Doesn't look happy. And guess what? We are finally getting a glimpse of our favourite vampire in the next chapter! I better reread my notes on her character; I need to get her introduction right! I have to admit, I am a bit nervous on how her character will come across in the story, I don't have a lot of experience with managing characters and their personalities, but with Serana being one of my favourite Skyrim characters I need to get her personality right and maintain it effectively throughout the story!**

**On a more general note, I have a question for all you readers. Do chapter titles impact how much you enjoy the story? Do you prefer chapters having titles, or not? Is there a difference?**

**Until next time, then!**

**-thyvillain**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Over a week later... *sigh* Took a bit longer to write this.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own. **

* * *

Chapter 5

Arbos lent close to the cavernous wall of Dimhollow crypt, his grip tight on the tiller of the crossbow as he traveled the dimmed, dangerous tunnels of Nordic ruins. The carvings on the walls, covered by more than a century's worth of dust, grime and webs that sometimes caught the metal and leather trappings that were woven into his armour depicted eerie scenes. His eyes caught the engraved history then and again and despite his inability to read the engravings he could not overlook the submissive; reverent context of the depicted people on the face of the walls, despite the aged, crumbling stone on which they were etched some pictures hidden by moss clinging to the crevices and cracks.

Bones were littered all along the eroded floor a midst the accumulated soil and slabs of broken down stone that had perhaps once belonged to the ceiling rather than the ground beneath his boots. Each of his steps was careful, precise, his utmost attempt at stealth despite the occasional, traitorous creak of leather should he twist or turn too rapidly, or reach down to the scabbard of his sword as if to reassure himself of its welcomed presence.

He turned another corner and stopped short at the wide arched pass into a likewise dimmed cavern, the entrance itself circular and framed so as to add stability. His feet hit the ledge where the stone carved path broke off, some distance down an underground stream ran a midst the collapsed stones of the ruin, the sound of water echoed softly within the cavernous hall, but there were no more paths for Arbos to follow. The stream should lead him to the vampires, two of which he had already found with the dead body of Tolan, his thoughts darkened at the reminder, his fingers brushed the lever of his crossbow carefully, a sting of remorse tainting his thoughts as he considered the Vigilant's mangled body at the entrance to the crypt. If the man had just _waited, _he would still be alive_._ He brushed off the matter rather forcefully and turned back onto his current dilemma.

Arbos studied the small canyon that split the cavern in two; it seemed like the water had cut through this hall and eroded the ground right through the middle. The only solution was to follow it, but that would leave him vulnerable from above on either side, he felt his jaw twitch with frustration, his gaze however stayed determined in its study. The gears in his head were turning, calculating until they stopped at an impasse, there was only one way. That only way was down.

The toe of his boot brushed the ledge again and he crouched, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder and studying the drop. He inwardly winced at the thought of the splash he would cause should he jump down, alerting any being alive or undead within the vicinity of his presence, caverns had a loathsome ability to echo. Crouching for a moment as his mind flashed with different unwelcome probable outcomes of his venture he reassured himself again of the crossbow at his back and sighed resignedly. It was obvious s_omething_ will go wrong at one point or another but he was unwilling to surrender to the minor dalliance, he has dealt with undead before.

Approaching one side of the ledge he grasped a worn-out, stone fire holder, the fire within the concave stone dish at its stop sending flickering shadows along his armour, the glint of metal and the stifling heat of flame stinging his eyes, he closed them as a brief respite and slung himself off the ledge, his knuckles turning pale as they clutched the ridges of the carved statue.

Painstakingly slow he began his descent, his feet catching the gouges and his hands grabbing at the crumbling stone and dirt and roots that were bound to the cavern's walls. The eroding stone beneath his left boot crumbled and he exhaled sharply, stilling his descent and wincing at the echoing taps and a splash of water. He could only pray it was drowned out by the noise of the stream.

He felt the earth crumple under his hand as he dug it into a gouge of the wall. _When was the last time the Divines sought to answer my prayers?_ Arbos thought drily.

With a growing sense of exasperation at some point in his descent he noted movement; a flash of magic, a blue light of conjuration that he glimpsed from the corner of his vision. He swore and let go, his calloused fingers stinging as they brushed against the jagged edges of the wall in his attempt to slow his descent. When he landed his feet jarred against the stone slabs and cold, underground water and he bent and dug his knee into the running stream and the ground beneath it, a pained grunt escaping him.

Arbos stood, reaching behind him to the crossbow at his back, notching a bolt and glancing up at the tell tale noise of bone and the tapping of bare, skeletal joints – he heard that strange tut of attempted skeleton speech, a clack of bare jaws and teeth.

He sent a bolt that took out a skeleton's skull, snapping the spinal connection to its torso with the force of the shot. The skeleton became dust, and the eerie light left its blank eye sockets. There were two other similar skeletons, one bearing a bow and the other in the typical Nordic fashion a sword and a shield, the black empty space of their eyes had the same possessed light. There was a dark blur in the background and he took note of it while he put another bolt on the slot, backing away as the arrows flew past him, unable to catch sight of the perpetrator of this necromancy. The next bolt that he shot landed on the archer's ribs, but it did not deter it as it notched another arrow, meanwhile Arbos was forced to deal with the skeleton approaching nearer with a deadly looking blade, the clinking of bones warning him of its approach as he struggled to reload the crossbow. _Faster, damn you! _His face contorted into the closest thing humanly possible to a snarl. His back hit the wall.

There was a whistle of steel in front of him and finally he heard the click of the crossbow. He moved with a savage yell, twisting sideways and curving away from the sharp blade as it swung just past him, there was a sharp screech and a burst of sparks near the left side of his face as steel hit stone and in the one movement he hooked the length of his crossbow around the skeleton's neck, twisting it sharply and feeling a surge of satisfaction at the resounding _snap_. The bones dissolved into ash right in front of him.

Another flash of a black blur, he was going to move when an arrow pierced him in the left shoulder blade, digging into the leather, in between the metal plates and piercing his skin. He only had a chance to let out a startled grunt when a body collided with him in the next instant, he fell. Arbos hit the water with a splash that sounded strangely muffled, but it might have been the burning sting as his jaw hit the bed of stone beneath the running water. He scrambled to resurface, but the same body pinned him down, bruising hands clutching his arms like a vice and pressing his head into the pathway of the water, it seeped between his lips and teeth and he felt its cold burn as it stung his throat, his lungs. The icy water numbed his face and it _burned_ like ice spikes that began to numb his body, he felt an arm lace around his throat. The contact left the same burn, the icy pain sunk into his neck and he struggled not to open his mouth in the water as his lungs screamed for respite, trying to keep the water from rushing into his throat. He heard a ringing in his ears that dulled even the thunderous rushing of the water; he pulled his arms against their binds, he was shivering.

It was a century's worth of agony that passed, when the black dots in his vision began to expand and dominate his sight that his head was finally yanked back and he at last heaved a desperate breath. He coughed, spluttered, heaved but the vice like grip around his neck did not lessen. In a trance like state he heard an eerie chuckle right behind him, a woman – no, a vampire, it was its hand suffocating him, cold fingers bruising his throat – its touch felt like ice. His right arm was bound behind him but he grasped at the vice holding his neck with his left with shaky fingers, gasping and fighting against the drowsiness that came with the chill – the touch felt like death, icy, freezing death. Amidst the blur of pain, the cold and the black dots reappearing and consuming his vision, his light like a hungry bit he saw the glint of metal – his crossbow! He let go of the arm, coughing as the pressure on his throat intensified as a result, he reached out and struggled for it, his numb fingers stiffly reaching for the tiller.

While he desperately fished for the weapon, each motion of his arm tiring him, weakening him, he heard a hiss, a sound so inhuman had he not been freezing already it would have chilled his body cold; alas his could barely move as it was. Arbos felt a glacial burst of air with the same coolness as a blizzard storm near the side of his neck; his skin crawled at the sensation, prickling in protest. He heard a dazed, hungry voice near his ear.

"Just a taste..." It was a snarl, and then he felt a sharp pain at his neck; he bared his teeth with a silent scream. He felt the twin fangs slipping through the barrier of his skin, the sensation felt like ice injected into his veins and his blood felt leaden, frozen. His heart gave a pained jerk within his ribcage and his body grew strangely limp. A feeling of weightlessness overwhelmed his body; it dulled his mind, all his senses like a cloak of agonizing nothingness.

In his numbed state, as if caught between a dream and reality, which was this? He felt the handle of the crossbow, pressed against his palm, his fingers twitched, rebellious to his wishes. His mind reached for the one act of control, defying the lulling, agony and pain that felt so permanent he barely registered it. His mind pierced at the suffocating darkness that surrounded his consciousness, and finally he forced his hand, numb and unfeeling as it was to close around the handle. He brought it up with a desperate jerk of his one free arm, pressing the tip of the bolt into the feeding, distracted vampire that clung to his neck like a parasite, his neck burning with the agony of the damned as he set the crossbow to its face.

"Taste this." He snapped and pressed the lever. He felt blood splatter the side of his face, although the sensation was much like an afterthought while his ears were ringing, his throat burning. And the horrendous, inhuman shriek too felt oddly muffled. The body behind him fell into the water unceremoniously.

Immediately after the support left him he fell back into the stream, following his attacker, the sharp daggers of pure cold pierced his skin, and his neck throbbed as if someone stuck an ice spike through his throat. The pain was enough to snap him out of his dazed stupor and with grinding teeth and heaved gasps he dragged himself to shore, scrambling up the stone whose edges seemed as painful as the sharp bite of the cold water. His limps protested the whole time. He lent against a stone wall, reaching up with his numb hands to touch the burning _bite_. His fingertips brushed the inflamed gouges, he winched and brought his hands closer to his face; they were covered in blood – his, his red normal blood and the abnormal dark blood, unwilling to mix with their different viscosity. He wove his fingers into fists, the movement slow, the response of his fingers delayed while he dizzily lent back to rest against the wall.

As he laid there on the crumbling bank, his boots still caught in the running water and his clothing and armor damp and locking in the chill he noted his shivering, the trembling of his hands. He was shaking, cloaked under misery of cold that his Breton blood could not guard him from. He was so _tired_.

After an eternity while his mind struggled to gain back control over his unreceptive body, the shock began to seize. And in its place his numbed mind was pierced with anger, a sudden dagger that morphed into passionate loathing. The transition between pain and rage strengthened his body with a new purpose, a new, unbridled energy so unrestrained it sparked between his fingers like magicka. He slammed his fist in the stone ground beneath him, his throat was still burning, and he felt nauseous. Infected, he snarled, the noise so inhuman, it sounded almost like _them_.

_Infected_.

There was a small corner in his mind that protested against the sudden cloud of hatred. It cautioned him, warned him of the danger such an emotion might warrant. It warned him of its consequences and its repercussions, of a time years ago, when it burned fiercely, unchallenged within him.

_Remember what your anger made you do... _A sly voice in his head whispered, mocking. Why did the voice sound like _his_? _Remember how you made them pay._ He felt a quirk in his lip. Maybe...

And then he shoved the thought away, under lock and key where it might stay until freed once more by circumstance.

He breathed, slowly, trying to instill serenity, peace – calm, he must stay _calm_.

With that thought in mind, controlling his breathing despite the rolling nauseous and the growing turmoil in his mind, he upon recalling his departure of Fort Dawnguard, reached into his armor and slid his hand beneath a leather woven buckle over his torso. There his fingers curled around a draught hidden in between two layers of protective leather and plate. His hand tightened around the small potion at the reminiscence of its acquirement, his hand trembled.

_He glanced at the potion with surprise, taking it from the outstretched hand._

"_What is this?" He looked up at Beleval, who was watching him with dry amusement._

"_A potion of curing disease, something you will undoubtedly need." Her tone was a matter of fact, but Arbos could hear the unspoken offer of peace on her part. He smirked in return; however it did not hold any hostility, merely appreciation. "Thank you." And he meant it._

_She nodded, seemingly satisfied with their unspoken truce. "Take another, and I suggest you make them your constant companions. The beasts like to bite."_

_Indeed, they do. _He smiled bitterly, though the muscles in his face felt taut with tension and twinge should he move them at all. With still slightly numb limbs he tipped it into his mouth and swallowed its contents, stifling a grimace at the awful taste. But it was nothing comparing to the burning ice that still throbbed in his neck, his parched throat welcomed the soothing resemblance to water. Arbos slumped against the wall heavily, his head hanging limply, his chin digging into the leather armour as he tried to recuperate. _Just for a moment_, he wanted a moment of peace.

Arbos did not know how long exactly he was there, sitting against the wall in the dim cavern, around him mounds of glistening ash and a dead vampiric corpse. But by the time he came back to himself, stifling the new angry energy that threatened his control of his magic the pain had almost ceased. And he had regained most of his mobility.

_Time to get up, _He almost groaned aloud, it seemed like every nerve ending in his body was protesting the idea, but restrained himself in the last minute, after what his clumsiness had cost him, he will be _damned_ should he allow himself to become careless again. He lifted his hands and channeled his magicka, welcoming the feeling of a healing spell that engulfed him, soothed his burns and scrapes, cuts and bruises and the bite near his throat. Momentary warmth filled him as the magic penetrated and bound each laceration; the relief was so unlike the icy pain from before. He stood.

Arbos grabbed his fallen crossbow, wiping the dark blood off its front and notched another bolt into the middle slit, rubbing at the blood that still covered his neck and his jaw where he had struck during his fall, the blood stained the brown leather. He glanced sideways at the dead vampire lying face down on the bank of the running water. Approaching cautiously he grabbed the vampire's robes and heaved the body sideways, exposing its features. Its features were a ghastly grey, with a ridged nose and stained carnivorous fangs – there was red, human blood – his blood tainting its lip and chin. His own lip curled in disgust. With a heavy grimace, he sought to retrieve the staff that pierced its cheek, jerking the bolt out of its bloodied, shredded cheek with a little more force than necessary.

A wisp of anger settled back into his thoughts and shone through his dark glare as he wiped the bolt clean and set it into his quiver.

"You are one ugly bloodsucker."

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**A/N: This chapter and the next were actually supposed to be one chapter. However it grew too long so I decided to post this portion now while I was working on the other. I am halfway done the next portion so I'll be sure to post the next chapter soon, for now though I hope you enjoy this one.**

**-thyvillain**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is almost a week overdue, I'm sorry! I'll make this a short author's note to compensate.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters, locations and dialogue belong to Bethesda. The OCs are my own.**

* * *

Chapter 6

He was unsure as to how long he had traveled through the winding tunnels of the Nordic ruins. The further he walked the more changes he noticed; architecture that set Dimhollow apart from any other peculiar place he had explored. At first they were minor shifts in etchings, stronger, more expensive stones that were carved with far more care than the enslaved Nords of the past he believed were capable of, and then he first met with the crude, carved monsters that lined doorways protectively – gargoyles that guarded whatever the vampires sought here. Arbos came here with his only guide already killed, so he followed the mined paths where the vampires appeared. They provided him with a trail, guarding each twist and turn of the tunnels leading into the heart of the crypt.

His racing mind provided different theories on their strange behaviour, what had caused their sudden upfront aggression, a relic or a weapon? Whatever cause that could have possibly led them to abandon their discrete nature was a cause for concern to the mortal world.

It was that which had roused his caution, his stiff posture as Arbos crossed the thick double doors, once guarded by a lever locked gate and a guarding vampire. The two heavy doors were ancient wooden beams, clasped together by metal.

He stepped into the next room cautiously, leaving behind the vampire and the frost bite spider with a shared fate. The more vampires he fought, the more confident he became that they were eerily different from the mere nuisances that had sometimes bothered him on the Skyrim roads. There was intelligence behind their aggression, one that did not escape Arbos' notice, serving to unnerve him further with his lack of knowledge.

He knew he had entered this lair unprepared.

The doors closed behind him with a great shudder as he entered the next odd, archaic looking room. On the other side there was an open doorway protected on either side by the dark gargoyle statues, with a balcony to oversee the cavern beyond. A pedestal etched of black stone stood in the middle of this room, Arbos walked down the steps with a steady grip on the crossbow, approaching it cautiously.

A scroll, yellowed by time rested on top of it and as he approached it he could make out the shimmer of magicka with which it was surrounded; it was an arcane scroll of fire storm. He brushed the dust off the paper, his fingers tingling in response to the magic that flared within the parchment. Frowning thoughtfully he surveyed the room, before regarding the scroll again contemplatively. Decided, he gingerly set his crossbow down onto the pedestal and reached for the scroll, slipping it underneath his gauntlet. It could prove useful against the undead susceptible to fire.

Tucking the parchment in he turned back to study the room and its content, tracing the architecture that appeared foreign when comparing to the crypt itself. The same gradual change, the stonework was newer, still old but in a far better state than its counterpart behind the double doors, infested with Draugr and the like. There were arched windows on either side, covered somewhat with hanging moss and an arched entrance that led to a balcony, he could only guess at what such a cavern could contain – his suspicion was that they were of ceremonial intent, seemingly the one of the few similarities to the common, ancient Nordic ruins.

He crossed the length of the room and quietly walked down the several, worn out steps, the view from said balcony was one to render him momentarily breathless.

Before him stood grand, cavernous chamber with ceilings so high they were kept in shadows, far away from the flame wrought luminosity of the fire holders and braziers that kept the cavern itself mostly visible to a mortal eye.

He neared the old, stone railing of the balcony, noting that the only pathway now was the turning line of stairs that should lead to the dark water below. The water streams that he had previously followed and was ambushed in have gathered here as a subterranean lake. The black water surface shimmered with the torch light, it made the structure at its heart seem ghastly pale in comparison. His eyes narrowed as he studied the ceremonial island surrounded by the underground reservoir, it confirmed his earlier suspicion. It was a superior structure of a similar making to the balcony, and to the room at his back. The same architecture responsible for the gargoyles standing vigil; stone statues he had not seen in any other tomb nor crypt or ruin.

The only way to reach the island in Arbos' line of sight seemed to be an old stone bridge that led to the circular island; great pillars encircling the island's braziers and engraved circular gouges into the flooring. The setting of a ceremonial chamber screamed at him as he studied it intently, it cautioned him with the skill of those who had designed it, and what exact purpose it held.

The purpose for the island was unclear, but it spoke of the power on par with the ancient Dragon Priests, if not the same era. Arbos exhaled quietly, the air was chilled and it frosted his breath slightly, an errant finger tapped at his crossbow as he mused over this new discovery. He stilled himself after a moment; the vampires were bound to be close.

He registered mutterings below him and slipped behind a stone gargoyle to his left, his hand tightening around the tiller of his crossbow. He leaned towards the gaped railing of the balcony and squinted down to see five humanoid shapes; one wearing distinct Vigilant robes was on the ground, struggling. Another looked like a bandit, three vampires. His lips thinned with frustration.

Arbos strained to hear their conversation; at once glad for the echoing nature of the cavern though it warned him not to make any sound at all. He shifted uncomfortably at the pained yell that came from the Vigilant, watching as a vampire in red and black robes had cruelly slammed a foot onto his back.

"I am not telling you anything, vampire!" Despite the firm defiance in the Vigilant's voice, there was a pained catch and a shuddering breath that Arbos caught, and judging by the satisfied chuckle of the vampires they did too.

And to Arbos' quiet repulsion, they delighted in it.

He watched with growing unease from his hidden perch behind the gargoyle as one of the vampires, the male shrouded in robes of similar making to the one torturing the Vigilant, but of a grey color, approached the fallen man, he heard the arrogant voice as it reverberated through the cavern carelessly, "I believe you, Vigilant."

A pause, Arbos lifted his crossbow to rest it against his shoulder; maybe he can get a clean shot.

He brought the crossbow closer, shifting slightly in his crouch while he sought a better angle, he winced at the quiet click of mechanics as he adjusted his hold on the weapon, he knew little about vampires, but his venture into the crypt had taught him they had senses akin to animals, heightened sense of smell and hearing. At one point, he was forced to scrub dirt onto his clothing and armour to ward off the fresh smell of blood when he had noticed that the vampires had began to anticipate his approach.

When Arbos leaned back against the railing, between two carved pillars that barred it, he finally had clear view of the leading vampire, who was now standing in front of the bloodied, still defiant body of the Vigilant with a short sword in its hand. Arbos frowned, he could make the shot, it was a short distance, and it would recoil and give him time to reload. He angled his crossbow some; his thumb grazed the lever lightly. He could feel a nervous tick in his jaw.

"And..." The sinister chuckle paused Arbos before he could press the trigger, "I don't think you even know what you've found here."

Arbos stayed his hand, tilting his head thoughtfully as he contemplated the unaware, smug posture of the speaking vampire. All he had to do was press the trigger, the force of the bolt, should he pierce the skull would kill instantly, and return the vampire to whatever afterlife set for the beasts of Molag Bal.

But he halted, his finger would not budge – the vampire sounded so sure, should he stand back, observe and wait for a better chance to kill them? He had followed the vampires here, but should he kill them now he will not know what to do next.

Arbos frowned in distaste, his options were limited.

With great reluctance he peeled his hand from the trigger, keeping his crossbow in its set position despite his decision. What will they do to the Vigilant?

That sly, voice of the vampire again rang through the cavern, "Go meet your beloved Stendarr." Arbos heard a crunch, a weak gasp of pain. And then there was silence below him.

_Right. _He closed his eyes briefly in response, but he restrained himself from the stab of guilt that followed. _Remember why you're here_.

He opened his eyes again and surveyed the undead who had gathered away from the corpse, they were heading for the bridge. He followed them in the shadows, pressed against the carved and jagged rocks that formed this cavern.

"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" It was the other vampire who spoke, distinctly female. She wore a style similar to the quiet vampire walking slightly behind them, red and black. They approached the bridge, with Arbos stealthily creeping behind them.

He heard the scepticism, the doubt in the vampire's tone as if probing her vampiric leader for weakness. "He still might have told us something."

The vampire beside her scoffed, his authorial drawl dismissing the other vampire's concerns as if it would a bothersome bug. "He knew nothing." Arbos saw her bristle at Lokil's dismissive tone; from the shadows he could see the dangerous glint of her fangs as she turned towards the other vampire. Lokil seemed unfazed by the hostility, merely turned to meet the glare of the vampires, his mocking eyes hardened.

"He served his purpose by leading us here, and now we will bring Harkon the prize." Lokil's voice had kept its monotone, he sounded bored as if he had explained himself to them too many times previously. "Vingalmo and Orthjolf will make way for me after this." He reminded the flustered vampire with a sneer.

The vampiress snarled in response and to Arbos it seemed like the two would come to blows when another voice jolted both vampires from their quarrel.

"Yes, yes Lokil. But do not forget who helped you."

The vampire who had held the Vigilant down before interrupted, stepping in between the glaring duo; Arbos watched the bandit thrall trailing behind him obediently and frowned, _he_ was the one in control of the thrall then. He watched as Lokil kept his eyes trained on the snarling vampiress, seemingly ignoring the other vampire's warning.

She likewise ignored the vampire playing at peace keeping, looking conflicted between whom she would rather tear apart more. Arbos felt his lips twitch up at the look of pure loathing.

_Now, now, it wouldn't do for them to do my job for me_. Was Arbos' amused thought as he shifted slightly from his hiding place near the bridge. He will attack, he quickly decided, should they start fighting among each other, with that thought he trained a bolt at the thrall master with a smooth motion, having grown used to the mechanism. He kept to the shadows as he adjusted his aim – the master and thrall would go first.

His finger was a hair's breadth from the trigger when he saw Lokil's icy countenance shift; he stifled a grunt of disappointment. _Patience..._ He soothed the adrenaline that wrought his hyper heart.

Arbos watched Lokil carefully, noting that although the danger in his posture was yet to disappear his expression turned back to his previous conceited amusement, he broke the gaze of his angered companion, turning back towards the vampire trying to keep peace, "Of course, you know I never forget who my friends are, Falic. Or my enemies"

The last part, Arbos saw, was directed at the snarling vampires who seemed to glower even more at the laughter of her vampiric companions. He watched carefully as Falic turned away from Lokil and towards her, and although Lokil could not see Arbos noted the look of caution that Falic shot the vampiress.

Arbos felt a stab of unease, although he was unsure as to its origin. He pressed himself farther into the shadows.

The vampires, seemingly reproachful of Falic's warning shifted subtly, though her tone was only marginally less irritated. "Only Molag Bal himself knows why our _Lord_ Harkon should saddle me with you two. And – "

She turned towards Lokil with a hiss, seemingly unwilling to let go all of her hostility, Arbos saw her hand twitch towards the dagger at her belt, although it stayed where it was.

"Neither do I, Lokil. You'd best not forget." Even from Arbos' vantage point, hiding behind a pillar as they stood in the middle of the bridge, he saw Lokil's calmed expression become strained, a glint of white flashed at his mouth. Arbos tensed with his crossbow at the ready but Lokil said nothing more. Arbos stifled a grunt of irritation, _Patience_...But his mind was working, churning with new information.

They entered the circular of pillars in the middle. Arbos stopped at the bridge, crouching behind a gargoyle statue. His mind was whirring with speculations – this was an organized group of vampires, he had gathered as much before and now he was sure that his theory was correct. As soon as he reaffirmed in his mind, a disarming stab of uncertainty pierced his thoughts.

The reason for his unease was hard to place, somewhere along the line that he had began – He paused.

He had begun to refer to them as _live_ beings.

_But they are not; they're not_. His mind protested, only to be shushed by a new, blooming theory that had begun its slow domination over his mentality.

He had honed his intellect through tomes upon tomes of the College, and the ones not to be found there he had found elsewhere in his travels. He relished in knowledge, in thinking. And in the open minded views worthy of scholars that taught that _not everything was as it seemed_.

Oh how he had fought to erase all the 'blemishes' his younger childhood teachings imprinted on him, to adapt to the Jarl's, to the Empire's laws. He had labored as an orphan to adopt the good customs, to be accepted by his new peers, and then as a young man sought to see all without bias, as an arcane scholar worthy of the College should. He, who was once hated for being the lawless son of the Reach, had become a hero, a legend. By sheer strength of will he had become an acknowledged Arcane Master, the Arch-Mage. And by pure chance of fate, he had become the Dragonborn.

Savos Aren made the College of Winterhold sanctuary to the prosecuted races studying in the arcane arts, and Arbos followed his tradition. And he then furthered his claim for racial equality in the Thieves' Guild, with his connections to Brynjulf and Karliah, and all his brothers and sisters still following the revered, infamous trade.

But this, this was an uncomfortable thought that vampires, whom he at some point beyond his recollection deduced to be lesser. _No_, Arbos corrected himself as he watched the three vampires enter the circular island, _I see them for what they are, walking corpses, they are walking corpses._

They were, why then did he feel so unsettled?

It was a troubling thought, that these vampires, with their sinister battles of wit, with their sarcasm and hostility and hierarchy he had seen so many times before, working with the Empire and the Stormcloaks, seeking a treaty of peace in High Hrothgar. Their squabbles are so familiar – in that these moments when he watched them from the shadows, the vampires seemed so _human_.

Arbos was so unsettled by the thought, was driven so deep into his musings that he almost forgot why he was there. Realized his lapse in attention he forced himself out of his own stupor.

He felt himself frown, it did not matter what they were. He was to find what it was they were searching for, to stop them and to kill them. Distraction was fatal, doubt was lethal.

_Let it trouble me when it is safe to do so. _He prayed into the recess of his mind, unused to the vacant emptiness that was previously reserved by a Daedric power, a Daedric Prince that had abandoned him when leaving him to this mission.

He felt a cold stirring somewhere in his mind, a brief flicker of something before, so quick he barely noticed it, and shook it off just as quickly. _It matters not, not now_. He soothed his own impatience, his breaths even, his heart and hand steady.

Arbos crossed the bridge, crouching and staying close to the shadows within the cavern, where the water did not shed the dim lights of torches. The vampires were on the island, near the odd carved pedestal – the only detail that occupied the circle surrounded by the connected pillars other than the unlit braziers. His keen mind, trained by Brynjolf so many years ago filtered through the rest of their conversations, their excited murmurs hinting that they were close to retrieving whatever it was that brought them here in the first place.

That meant he could not delay any longer, to do so would risk the vampires getting away with what it is they were searching for. Still, there were four of them, three vampires and a thrall and Arbos took care not to underestimate their abilities. He would be a fool to attack them head on.

He let the image of Tolan settle within his mind, his own personal warning.

No, he must use stealth for as long as he could, albeit the illuminated island did not appear promising for his plight. A plan was needed, one against they who have swords and daggers and magic and fangs. After entering the crypt he had learned quickly that the vampires excelled in the arcane arts, wielding spells he as an Arch-Mage knew not of. It was worrying, the extent of his ignorance to their kind. _A problem to be taken care of once I leave this place, no sooner_, He prayed he would not come to find said answers at the fangs of Molag Bal's servants.

But there was one thing he did know, they loathed the sun, and fire to the same extent.

He tilted his head thoughtfully, an idea came to mind, it roused a flicker of grim satisfaction and served to lessen the pang of remorse trapping him since the death of two Vigilants of Stendarr. Arbos reached into his knapsack and took out the scroll he had found upon the entrance to this cavern. _Scroll of Fire Storm..._

He needed to be closer to all of them, and to contain them to the island. _What to do, what to do..._ An idea came to mind, it was ill thought, dangerous but something that just might work.

Arbos rested the crossbow to his shoulder again, his eyes narrowed. Crouching in the shadows of the bridge he fired the bolt at the vampire with the red and black armour, Falic. Arbos was startled as a giant, desperate body of a Nord met the bolt before it got to its intended target; the thrall had pushed its master out of the way. Arbos bit back a curse and hid behind a nearby pillar, one of the many that circled the island.

"Damn it!" Falic's savage snarl was only deafened by Lokil's order, "Leave the thrall and find the hiding coward!" Arbos pressed himself to white pillar, another bolt nocked and ready.

He saw Lokil and the female vampire nearing the bridge once more, their weapons drawn; even from the side he could see the blazing orange eyes that differentiated them from men and mer, _not human, not alive_, the manta in his head_. _The next bolt hit Lokil in his shoulder, the moment the familiar twang of the crossbow rang in his ears Arbos swung himself over the railing that guarded the stone island, his hands grabbed at the ledge, hanging from the sharp cut out of stone that led straight down to the water. His fingers dug into the foot of the railing and he began his swift circling of the island, his hands grabbing at the ledge deftly as he listened to the commotion above him.

He heard a pained hiss and an outraged cry that reverberated through the cavern. Arbos smiled grimly while he climbed sideways.

"Lokil!" It was Falic's voice, the previously collected, dangerous tone cracked with concern. The cave rang with the angry, predatory hiss of hostile vampires.

"I'm fine you fool, find that piece of meat!" Seeing that as his cue, Arbos lifted himself onto the railing, now on the opposite side of the ceremonial island that trapped the angered vampires, the female vampire, whose hands were alight with red, pulsing magicka saw him first. He silenced her with a bolt between her eyes before she could announce his presence. Her final, savage shriek although abruptly silenced though, had caused enough commotion to garner the attention of her companions, he watched coolly as both vampires turned towards him.

Lokil's orange eyes, like the ones of his companion glowed with venom; the cavern air felt colder, Arbos felt the hair of his nape rise in response although his hardened glare did not weaken under the demonic gaze.

"You..." Lokil hissed. There was a menacing lisp in the vampire's speech. Arbos saw Falic match the other vampire's snarl, catching the brief flash of pain as he caught sight of the undead turned dead vampiress.

Arbos did not linger on that look, for it was gone swiftly.

He stood up; standing on the thick stone railing and smoothly notched another bolt, it was a show of challenge on his part, one that the vampires did not take kindly to. Lokil barked a laugh, his vampiric eyes gleaming with hunger, "I will tear you apart, mortal."

The sadistic purr did not unnerve him.

Arbos felt himself smirk, catching Falic's angered glare "Well come on then. You filthy, daedric thrall." The cruel sense of pleasure as Falic's fiery, demonic gaze widened with reproach was worth the potential consequences of taunting a predator.

Lokil roared and charged, too eager to rip him apart with his bare hands to use his vampiric spells. Arbos' smirk widened as he pinned the charging vampire with a cool, deathly look and jumped off the railing to meet him, conscious of Falic's warning shout, "Lokil, don't!" But Lokil did not listen. A snarled curse, and then Arbos saw Falic charge after his vampiric comrade. _The arrogant die first_.

Lokil roared and swung his sword, the wicked gleam of steel high over his head. In the same moment, a mere few feet away from a deadly collision with a vampire Arbos snapped, "_Tiid._"

And time slowed as he commanded.

He felt time sink into his moving limbs, trying to slow him just as his dragon blood repelled the greedy leach of his Thu'um. The two vampires in front of him however had no such protection, and he watched them slow to a mere snail's pace, as if trying to run against a powerful river current.

The slow, descending blade at his head Arbos side stepped, using the sharpened tip of his notched bolt to slice at the vulnerable conjunction of arm and shoulder, he heard the hint of a rip and a beginning of a howl that only fully enveloped the cavern when he was already in the middle of the stone circle, back pressing into the pedestal behind him. The vampires turned as fast as they could, which was not nearly fast enough to catch him as he unravelled a scroll.

The scroll clutched in his hands shimmered and flared with fiery light, the runes ignited through the parchment. Each word burnt itself into his mind with the same intensity of a newly learnt word of power though he did not fully comprehend them, merely an observer as the scroll disintegrated within his hands, only to leave behind immense power. He drew it closer, encasing it within his hands, closing it in tighter until his arms trembled and the fiery light of fire bubbled like boiling liquid. He felt his strength drain with the force of his thu'um and the magic it took to control the fiery magic imprinted into the scroll's essence.

Had his own heart not been hammering away through his ribs he would have found great amusement at the paranormal seen, the vampires' expression of shock, the panic, they will not catch him in time.

_Too slow..._ something in his mind whispered, it sounded like his voice, he smiled –

And then his dragon blood released its hold on time, and he in the same instant released the power boiling within his physical grasp, the magic that engulfed him in its power flooded through savagely, tearing through his very essence as it flooded the corporal world.

It was a brief moment, short. But in that moment Arbos' eyes were encased with light and his ears with the roar of fire. His body thwarted with the heat, though he was left unharmed.

And then the fires were gone and his ears were overwrought by sounds of agony. His body was left unscathed by the arcane blaze while they who chased him before were now clutching at their burning skin, the cavern echoing with inhuman shrieks. The flames had extinguished into nothingness, but they clung greedily to the vampiric skin that loathed them.

He heard a pained gasp, it was Falic struggling to his feet – his once pale skin charred and covered with burns, his – _its _his mind screamed_,_ snarling face darkened by burns making the glinting curved fangs stand out even more as they appeared past its peeled back lips.

Arbos shifted on his feet slightly and tilted his head, lifting his crossbow to aim in response to the vampire's savage look. Arbos watched as Falic shot the other surviving vampire a look wrought by panic, Lokil was still crouched on the ground, breaths haggard and pained. Arbos estimated roughly how long it would take the vampire to recover. _Not long, these are powerful, more powerful than normal vampires. _He felt his thoughts darken, what are they?

And then something happened, something Arbos should have foreseen, but it caught him off guard.

Lokil heaved himself up with a hiss, his grey vampiric armour laden with ash and burnt through to reveal dark, charred skin in some parts, the vampire's glowing orange eyes were alight with wrath, they locked onto something behind the Breton, Arbos turned quickly to see Falic standing with an equally savage stance, blood was covering his nose, staining his fangs red.

And then both vampires disappeared, a shimmer of spell work the only clue to what they had done; they turned invisible.

Arbos cursed roughly, hearing a rasping chuckle to his left in response.

He turned to his left; searching for the glimmer of their spells as he brought his crossbow closer, his hand tightening around its hand rest. Arbos twisted behind him, in front of him, sideways. Where were they? He squinted, trying to trace the unearthly shimmers that might give them away.

He saw nothing, heard nothing more.

Arbos slowly backed away, his back hit that same pedestal again, and he was in the middle of the circular island, out in the open. _You fool_, he muttered darkly, his voice echoing within the panicking recesses of his mind.

He felt his jaw twitch in anticipation, he forced himself to calm. For once noticing that his heart was hammering against his ribcage, his palms were sweaty but his only response was to tighten his hands around his crossbow, he whirred around in a circle again, straining his eyes. There was a foot step behind him, he whirred around to face a magical shimmer.

But now, time was against him.

Something hit him in the stomach, sending him reeling back and stumbling over the pedestal. His back hit the smooth top, and in front of him was the far away ceiling of the cavern, his crossbow flew out of his hands and clattered somewhere beside him. He felt his back compress the stone slob beneath it of the pedestal, feeling the slab retract with a shudder of stone.

Everything was quiet aside from Arbos' breathing as he struggled to regain the air that was so brutally kicked out of him.

He heard Lokil's cruel, humorous chuckle, "Let's see if this works." Arbos turned slightly, meaning to get off of the pedestal and grab for his crossbow when a pain erupted in his back and he screamed.

The sound of the metal, jagged spike piercing his flesh echoed with his wild heartbeat in his skull but he felt deafened by the pain. His jaw ached as he ground his teeth, his arms and legs dangling in mid air, his body being held up only by the spike that pierced his lower back. He felt blood oozing through his throat, coating the inside of his mouth and he coughed harshly.

Distantly he heard the vampire's laughter, sinister and low and he blurrily saw their shapes in the corner of his vision as they moved, the spike retracted and he fell off the pedestal with a pained gasp, hitting the floor, his eyes were assaulted by nearby purple flame that writhed within the engraved gouges in the floor.

He reached behind him with a shaking hand, gasping as he pressed against the gouge in his back; it pierced the metal and leather of his armour. He dug his temples into the ground; his teeth ached from with muffled screams that he fought suppress.

Lying there, his life blood leaving and dribbling between his weakened fingers he felt oddly detached from the world, his vision was turning blurry, his breaths growing shallow, only his hearing seemed to be high tuned to the world around him, for those agonizing minutest that felt like eternity he could do nothing more than listen;

"...maybe we should treat ourselves."

"Focus, Falic. Help me solve this infernal puzzle." Lokil hissed, the voice sounded almost normal, so unlike the savagery it held before. He heard the grinding of moving stone, they were moving the braziers.

"Brother. Feed on the Manmer, you are weake- "

Arbos distantly heard Lokil's threatening snarl. "Do not finish that sentence, _brother_."

There was a groan of a stone brazier fitting into place and Arbos forced himself to turn onto his back, his jaw was aching now as he stifled another yelp. The gouged line on the floor beside him erupted into purple flames, the arcane fire stung his eyes and he recoiled, scrambling backwards and howling at the pain that went through all the nerve endings in his spine, his back stung with the wound of the spike, dots filled his vision interrupted only by purple flames and then he felt the ground beneath him part and crumble.

He bit back a pained gasp, the back of his head hitting the stone floor, staring at the darkening ceiling. The grinding of stone in the background was comparably dull to the throbbing of blood between his ears, but from the corner of his vision he could see a rising structure of stone, a monolith.

And then his dimmed vision was blocked by a wall of grey and a pair of orange eyes as Lokil crouched in front of him, seemingly unconcerned with the burning, purple fire that surrounded them. Twin fangs were protruding past his lip in a cruel sneer, "You have served your purpose, mortal."

Arbos' vision wavered, the vampire and stinging azure flames and the agony in his back sent his mind plummeted into a dark abyss. He fell into it helplessly, losing sight of the fiery eyes that held murder.

_And he resurfaced into chaos._

_Arbos pushed past fighting bodies, metal boots crushed his smaller feet but he was too panicked to cry out, he scrambled up the staircase to the keep, a spell of sparks was shot above his head and he glanced sideways to see – _

"_Ragar!" He saw his older brother, an untested youth with a sword with jagged bones, too big for him, in his hand trying to escape an Imperial soldier. Arbos watched as he clumsily brought his Forsworn sword up to block an axe. He was sent staggering back onto the steps with the force of the Stormcloak's blow. _

_Ragar met Arbos' panicked gaze with a terrified expression, he reached for Arbos desperately when the soldier swung his axe down again._

_Arbos stumbled over his feet to get to his brother, shoving the soldier down the winding steps, the Stormcloak kept rolling down, the armor making a horrible shrieking sound as it hit the edge of each step on its way down into the burning streets, he grabbed his brothers hand and ran, "We need to find father!"_

_His vision darkened again, and he felt like a vortex had taken him again, his senses blurred._

A freezing hand grasped his throat and it jerked him back to his senses, gasping as he was lifted off the ground, his back screamed in protest but he could do no more than to struggle weakly, dizzy and light headed from blood loss.

It was Lokil who was holding him by the throat, the cold hand digging into his throat and keeping him aloft, all he could manage was a weak grunt and a defiant glare at his captor. Arbos watched Lokil through the dimness of his vision, the vampire's fiery eyes stood out from the scorched flesh of his face, the flesh eaten away by his spell. He felt a flicker of satisfaction somewhere within the still functioning portion of his mind.

Arbos saw Lokil's taunting sneer flicker with anger and the hand around his throat tightened, "I will drain you dry, mortal. And your blood will heal me as I kill you."

Arbos did his best to snarl; a less effective insult without fangs, so he spat at the vampire's burnt face to compensate. The vampire's flinch was so comical to his weary, reckless mind that he chuckled, a hoarse pained sound. He was too tired to care of the repercussions.

"Must you? The new look suits you far better." The outraged expression of the blonde vampire made him chuckle again. The light headedness _definitely_ loosened his tongue. He felt like he was stuck in limbo, in a dream.

"You...you – "Whatever words Lokil was grasping to come up with was drowned by the vampire's roar as he slammed Arbos into the monolith behind him, his teeth clicked together painfully as he struggled not to scream again at the stab of pain, he saw those stars again, of how he _hated_ these constellations. Dimly, his weary mind noted that the monolith sounded hollow, what was in it?

"Lokil!" Arbos heard Falic's warning voice, it rebounded in his head but he could do nothing but stare back and meet Lokil's burning, murderous eyes. A sense of familiarity settled within him, a dizzying feeling.

The world churned again.

"_Lokil!" A smooth, authoritative drawl rang through the chamber, a vampire with dark hair pulled back, his features condensed into a predatory but solemn expression as he approached the victorious looking vampire._

_Arbos froze when he saw what said vampire was dragging with him, _

"_Rag – "His shout was interrupted by a gloved hand over his mouth, he struggled but the grip did not relent. He heard a soothing_ _whisper_ _near his ear, an authoritative, feminine voice._

"_Don't move." _

"NO!"

His panicked shout drove him back to reality, and sent both vampires back with the power of unrelenting force. He caught himself before he fell, leaning against the monolith behind him tiredly, his back was still in agony but muted, overshadowed by memory of fear and the pounding of adrenaline that now jarred his body into action.

Arbos was moving in a daze, his body working without the consensus of his thoughts as he charged at the startled vampires. He dashed towards the staggered body of Lokil, sending a bolt of lightning towards the retreating back of Falic.

He heard Lokil's thunderous voice echo through the cavern and his skull, "Come back here you coward!"

He could hear panic in the vampire's voice as he watched his companion flee into the catacombs. He only felt a slight prickle of annoyance that he could not finish off the other vampiric nuisance.

No matter, it was Lokil he wanted.

Arbos drew his sword from his scabbard, the sound of steel against leather ringing in his ears and regaining Lokil's attention from his treacherous comrade, Arbos punched the vampire with the thick, metal cross guard of his blade in the cheekbone, watching as the vampire fell with the force of his blow, the cross guard left a bloody path along Lokil's face. It wasn't enough.

He grasped the fallen vampire by the throat, "What were you doing there?" He roared, his fingers compressing the wounded vampire's throat. Lokil's fiery eyes were alight with menace, fear, panic. Arbos almost grinned with satisfaction had it not been for his intent need to _know_. He was there, the vampire was _there_.

"Markarth. What were you doing in Markarth thirty years ago?!" Lokil's demonic eyes shone with comprehension, his fanged mouth portraying malicious glee and Arbos pressed harder into the beast's windpipe.

Arbos glared vehemently as the vampire coughed, "Ah, that day, the buffet of panicking mortals ripe for picking." Lokil's fiery eyes were laughing at him; Arbos felt his jaw twitch and he retaliated by bringing the sharp edge of his sword into the vampire's throat, above his clenching fingers.

The vampire's fiery eyes flared, Arbos started.

A sharp pain hit him as the vampire in his grasp drove a sharp point of steel into his back. He was thrown back by paranormal, vampiric strength. The aggravated, gaping wound throbbed painfully when it met stone. The stone monolith that had stood untouched shuddered at the impact. The back of his head hit the stone with a crack, his saw the damned constellation again. This time darkness lapped at the edges of his vision, his eyelids gained weight.

And in his last moment of consciousness he heard the groan of stone sliding against stone. His head lolled back against the monolith's shuddering wall limply, and with the taste of copper in his mouth the last traces of awareness left him.

Darkness swallowed him, and he could not fight it.

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**A/N: On another note, thank you both the mysterious guest and Alkeni for your nice reviews, and also a big thank you to everyone else who is reading my story, I appreciate your views just as much. **

**I'll see you next chapter.**

**-thyvillain**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Alright I apologize for the extended wait, what I didn't mention in the last chapter's author's notes is that we were moving during the winter break, we've purchased a home a few days before it started and spent the first week of the break fixing up and painting, and this week was spent moving in and celebrating. **

**I hope you had a far more relaxing break than I had. ;)**

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Chapter 7

The purple sky was filled with sparks; they clashed within the darkened sky over the black void that settled there like mist, the dark companion of the bleak, distant moon in the Soul Cairn.

Amidst the barren lands stretching miles across the desert stood black, worn down citadels and towers and other foreboding, broken down buildings covered by unmoving, bleak sands. This world, dark and haunted by the souls of the dead, the condemned and the unfortunate was the wretched example of the mortal world, should one day the light of Aetherius be taken from Nirn.

Somewhere, in one of the cathedrals guarded by an imperturbable wall of magic and eternally stormed by sparks of ethereal lightning, a monolith stood. This monolith; her prison, was made of the darkest stone, like a symbol of her misfortune. Her undead body was trapped there for safe keeping.

This barren land of eternal desert, haunted by trapped souls became her resting place – away from the sands of time.

A great, agonized roar of another eternally doomed creature rang through this ravaged world, joining the ever constant thunder. The outcry came from the belly of a beast doomed to an eternity of servitude, duty and sorrow as he flew overhead, letting his barren, skeletal wings carry him as he guarded over these trapped souls.

He was to guard them for eternity, including her, who was the means to an end.

Another flash of ethereal lightning struck, and the damned son of Akatosh roared with rage as the black mist of the skies were disrupted by a pale, blue light. These tendrils of the mortal world snuck into the cairn of imprisoned. They surrounded the black and dead citadel and the glowing gem that floated as a beacon above it, encasing it in its pulsing glow.

The gem lost its haunting light and fell, meeting the ground in a thousand shards that rained over the wasteland.

The Ideal Masters stirred on their thrones when the barrier fell.

A monolith stood within on the highest tower of this now unguarded cathedral, and the blue light dived to possess it greedily, wrapping it with the blue, magical strands. And despite the raging of the sky and the beasts that stood vigil, within this sarcophagus, this monolith, the one that contained the undead vessel to potential disaster, a soul flared to life once more.

As soon as it did, this connection to the mortal world, this mortal magic of Nirn, rooted from the ancient bowels of Dimhollow Crypt, uncaring of the discord it created enveloped the stone structure and was gone with a flash of blue light.

An immortal was brought back to Nirn.

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She smelled blood long before she could see it and before she could sense anything else; it encased her like a long lost friend. But it smelt different, ash and old blood, wrong.

The magic in her veins flared to life and the blood of her kin sharpened her senses when the slow, silent heartbeat in her ribs pulsed through her, regaining its lazy motion and purpose after so long trapped in death. Beyond the foul smell of her dead kin, she sensed a more welcome smell of mortal blood, and the familiar rustic tang sent an engulfing, aching feeling that jarred her to alertness with an insistent throb of her tapered teeth.

Her eyes opened when she took her first breath in far too long, a drawn out and desperate inhale despite the dust and dirt that rose into the air when the stone barrier of her confinement descended. Her blurry vision registered when it disappeared into the ground below with a great shudder. She stumbled out with a gasp, squinting against the luminous lighting of the cavern that housed her prison, her knee bending as she braced herself with her trembling hands.

Her mouth worked soundlessly, her jaw cramped terribly and resisting the motion.

It was like waking up from prolonged sleep but so much worse, and she kneeled there trying to resurface from the dazed, magically induced mist that had clung to her for however long she was trapped there. She dug her fingers into the cool stone at her feet shakily, her breathing leveled.

With her mind cleared, the momentarily overshadowed hunger resurfaced with vengeance.

She almost shuddered at the onslaught of hunger decades over due, and she would have, had centuries of garnered control not fought off the response as she instead moved her jaw again and focused on the tell tale aching of her sharper teeth, her throat constricted with vampiric appetite.

Serana heard a sharp intake of breath, a gasp so low and short it could only be attained by her vampiric kin.

Her fiery eyes snapped up with a treacherous flare of hope, to be dashed away sharply and be replaced with cold, malicious suspicion as they narrowed. It was directed at the kneeling form of Lokil, who had started with a shocked expression while she struggled with the after effects of her awakening. Serana's memories flared to the forefront of her mind, diluting the aching parch of her throat.

"Traitor." She spit out past her fangs, her voice hoarse from the violent hunger that raked at her insides, it strengthened both her body and her rage, her fingers curled dangerously.

At her accusation the stunned vampire came to his senses, his expression darkened from surprise to a rueful kind of harshness when he tensed visibly. "Trust no one, Serana, it is your father's mantra." There was a reminiscing gentleness in the traitor's reminding tone, one that she could not accept.

She hissed and his eyes flared.

Sparks erupted at the palm of her hands and fled from her hands towards him and she charged him he tried to dodge the spell; the sharp spikes of energy that connected with flesh seemed to seep through his skin as they ravaged the vampire. She kept feeding the hex with the strength of her bloodhunger, her hands trained on his retreating form even as he stumbled with a pained howl, watching him convulse with the magic that ravaged his already burnt skin. It looked like someone else had done most of the job for her; she spared that thought for later consideration. –

That one moment cost her as she looked up to see an axe flying towards her and she twisted, it was too late for her to dodge it completely. Knowing this she threw her arm up over her face protectively and a pained hiss flew past her clenched teeth at the wail of severed nerves, the gash on her elbow, the force of the throw was enough to shatter mortal bone. Her fiery eyes pinned the bloodied vampire who had thrown it murderously, something powerful slid through her blood, a sensation far more potent than that of adrenaline.

With the new thrum in her veins she approached Lokil, he was struggling mid crouch with his burnt limbs, her were fangs bared when he looked up at her. Lokil's expression transformed quickly from one of anger to remorse, and he would have managed to make it convincing - to a mortal. His growl dimmed into a pleading admittance, "I had no choice..." Her lips twitched up in a grim smile as she watched him appraisingly, she was tempted to believe him.

But she was no mortal.

"You chose your side." How quickly his expression changed again before her eyes as he snarled at her soft reminder, his teeth bared and his orange eyes and stance similar to that of a cornered animal. She visibly flexed her fingers, curling and curling them tensely like a sabre cat would unsheathe her claws and he watched her, she could smell his trepidation. Serana felt her lips quirk up at the familiar, tempting scent of fear that Lokil had let slip. "Ah, but I should have known. You were always the coward."

She cut off whatever he was about to say, moving in a blur and slamming a foot into his collarbone. It threw him back winded and gasping with the blow, his back thudded against the stone floor but he didn't stay there.

Something tripped her feet and she stumbled and rolled to the side, avoiding the snarling body of the half blooded vampire. Serana drew herself up on her fours with a hiss, her fingers leaving a faint trail at the stone underneath her fingertips. Her body tensed while she studied the similar crouched shape of Lokil, his once remorseful face twisted into a fanged sneer. He snarled and she returned the sentiment, practically purring a challenge. The glint in her orange eyes held the promise of retribution, a dark mist settled over her skin.

They met near one of the displaced braziers, a thunderous clap of two brutal, vampiric bodies colliding with a show of brute strength as they shoved at eachother, her elbow at his throat and his arms bruising her ribs with the collision, the choking sound that her ears picked up drew a smile from her even when he managed to push her back a foot. He threw a punch at her cheekbone to press his assumed advantage but she twisted and jabbed him in his burnt side with a hand that for a split second harbored grey claws amidst the mist and blood, it dispersed in the next moment as she subdued her bloodlust.

Lokil's pained yelp rang in her ears sweetly and she felt a smile struggling to emerge, but then he harshly grabbed her by her left arm, twisting it and she twisted while slipping her elven dagger from the aged sheathe at her belt and backhanded his cheek with its moonstone pommel. A thrill of delight pulsed through her at the crunch that rang in her sensitive ears while his head snapped to the side abruptly with her blow.

Serana drove the dagger towards his heart but it sliced through air when he stumbled away with a hiss, a pale, burnt hand clutching at his cheek when he snarled at her and sought respite. But she would not relent.

Serana followed him in his retreat; the hunger in her ancient blood leant her power and fed her induced wrath. The power that she harbored for centuries purred happily at each blow and cut and bruise and wince of pain that he bore, though the thought of how long exactly she was locked away dimmed the vampiric satisfaction. A tidal wave of the same dark feeling cloaked her mind soothingly; it overlapped the sudden thought of her escape and imprisonment, Lokil's part in her unfortunate fate.

"_Get them!" A voice roared behind them, her mother grabbed her hand and began running, a frantic pace that made Serana stumble, only to be roughly picked up by her mother and shoved forward, "Serana, run!"_

_There was a commotion behind them and Serana turned despite her mother's desperation, it was her father leading the chase within the dark halls of their home, Lokil was behind him with a grim expression, he would not look at her. _Face me you coward, _but he did not._

_A cold, angry sensation twisted her heart._

She twisted and weaved past his desperate punches; to her they seemed slow and utterly predictable_, _the same pleasant sensation lapped at her thoughts as she twisted away from his punch, her keen mind noting his growing desperation, each time she breathed she could smell it.

_You forgot who taught you, brother. _She thought, taking note of the bestial pleasure that drove her punches and slashes, her fingers ached to tear him apart. Her fangs flashed near his face and he recoiled and using the distraction she chose to end this, and him, quickly.

Blocking another blow Serana ducked under the next, wild high swing of his arm, grabbing onto his wrist as she twisted behind him, her fingers clasping onto the joint with crushing force that elicited a grunt of pain while with her other hand she dug her elven dagger into the juncture of his shoulder blades with a brutal stab. She had no wish to prolong this beast's brawl.

The agonized howl that met her was like a balm to unhealed wounds. That and the clear snap as she drew back his arm deafened only by the scream that soothed her rage. When her knee drove into his spine and she retracted the golden metal from his armor of thick fabric roughly elicited another scream she felt her lips curve up briefly, savagely, smugly.

She shoved aside the brief stab of sorrow wrought by her actions, her reactions. But the pleasant, dark thrum of her vampire blood consoled her, it wrapped her in its embrace.

With a rough shove of her knee she pushed him face first into the stone ground and drew back her dagger. Her teeth ached for sustenance ages long overdue and she pursed her lips against the lengthened tips of her fangs as she battled to suppress her hunger, it is a foul thing to drink from another vampire. But -

Serana ground her foot into his back and summoned the red pulsing vein of her instinctive magic, pressing her nails into his nape harshly; the red tendrils latched onto barely conscious vampire and while he struggled within his throes of agony and humiliation she drained his immortal life, a soothing and equally disturbing sensation soothing her bloodlust.

A sigh was on the tip of her tongue when the taken life source appeased her potent blood and doused some of her hunger, providing her some measure of momentary relief. She would never know true contentment, her people always hungered; it was both their strength and their curse. Her foot lifted from his spine and she took a moment to enjoy the thrum of magicka that seemed to purr its content within her veins, an almost giddy sensation rippling through her. It was a price she was willing to pay.

She stepped away from the body beneath her and turned, surveying the room with her keen, shadow penetrating eyes, her lips thinned somewhat as she beheld the broken down cavern, a cavern that was new and freshly built when her mother had led her here. Her potentially grim thoughts were abruptly halted as she registered the reminding sting on her forearm, she turned her arm curiously. The gash of an axe's edge had almost healed; she traced the thin dark line at her elbow with a curious frown. _It has been so long since I saw my own blood, _she thought wryly.

_How long though?_

Serana looked around the jaded island, walking along the round steps that led to the now empty sarcophagus. Her gaze dropped onto the aged skeletons that lay littered around her resting place, how many had sought her throughout the decades and centuries, who were they? She kneeled beside one skeleton and knew, tracing the dull, skeletal teeth that still clung to the jaw, that it was not a vampire. There have been brief interludes in her induced sleep that she felt the same magic that had brought her out of her coma, an aura that was too weak to break the bonds that tied her there, these people died from the Soul Cairn's hunger, their blood not strong enough to free her. She had been tempted with freedom so many times when locked away, a tiny fragment of her mind that would have managed to awaken would respond, reach for the sensation, the magic that promised escape. She winced at the distant memory of the weak bond shattering, again and again, and her being descended into darkness again.

She stared up at the arching pillars deep in thought, but shook off the unnerved feeling that the shadowed memories wrought her. Instead, Serana chose to focus on the present, the once polished stone that was the marvel of the day's architecture was now aged, cracks were splitting the stone and moss had grown over the eroding the ceremonial carvings that made sense only to their creator. Where was her mother? Her light shiver then had nothing to do with the cold.

It was Lokil who found her, and he had served his Volkihar master. Her father had found her, then. She felt her foul mood darken even further at the prospect of facing the man, the sensation that had previously pumped her blood to life drained out of her slowly, settling deep within and leaving her bereft.

After a second of dreading contemplation on the oncoming reunion she crouched beside the dead body and wiped her blade clean from the blood that stained it. She heard no footsteps or commotion that would betray the presence of other vampires.

Her father would not send only three vampires to retrieve her. _Where are the others?_

She inhaled, a rustic tang of mortal greeted her and she stared at the monolith curiously, mortal blood? Her powers stirred within her as if to remind her of its constant presence, it soothed an agitated part of her. Her eyes shifted to the slumped figure propped against the stone structure and her curiosity was overwhelmed by a startled wonder. A mortal brought her back?

Her approach was slow, each step muffled as the cavern echoed with the sound of water, feeling a familiar throb in her throat. Her hand rose and traced the familiar, cool edge of the metal clad around her neck wearily, one of her fangs catching her lip as she dismissed the tantalizing scent that tempted her with this bloodied, but still alive body so close.

She felt a slight pressure at her throat and her hand stilled involuntarily; she swallowed stiffly and dismissed the odd feeling as her vampiric hunger. She will need to feed soon; the hunger gave her kind their power, but starvation would drain it along with their life, immortality was such a strange thing. Her father had sought it in fear of death, only to discover immortality, even when given by a Daedroth, was so fragile. Sometimes Serana wondered if that was what drove her father farther into madness.

A heartbeat registered in her head and she stilled, her keen eyes locked onto the body of her reviver, the seemingly lifeless body lying propped against the opened monolith that had previously caged her, a flicker of unease twisted her gut when she contemplated approaching it again, she had a grim feeling that this new fear of enclosed spaces will haunt her for a good portion of what's left of her eternity.

A mortal heart beat in her eardrums and she swallowed again when the familiar, much wanted, rustic smell that teased her palate intensified with her slow approach. She followed the descending, rounded steps to her opened sarcophagus, although she forced her eyes away from its dark inside, it only enough space for a body and the burden on her back. That startling reminder sent her hand flying to her shoulder, and to the metal clad, decorated scroll that had been buried with her, was it still there?.

Her hand felt the gilded metal caging the dooming prophecy inside and the relief she felt was like being doused in ice cold water, it jarred her to attention. She had to get home, it did not matter who waited her there. Her eye caught the decaying ruin again and she wondered at the daunting task, how long had she been locked in here?

She stood in front of the bleeding man at her feet. Her fangs panged and she was jerked back from her thoughts, Serana ground her sensitive teeth uncomfortably but paid no attention to the sensation, in some way the pain grounded her and strengthened her control over her hunger, stifling it beneath a heavy cover of her mind as she crouched beside the dying mortal.

His appearance made her pause, her curiosity piqued.

Serana, before her family moved to the Castle Volkihar had seen few of the Manmeri people. Her minded drifted briefly to her first curious encounter with the troubled race; they were borne of the Altmer, when the elves decided to spread their influence to the other races through their hereditary blood. Serana remembered their sharp features, and the likeness to the elves that spoke little of their partially human heritage, to her they looked like a different elven race.

It seemed like after centuries or whatever time that had passed, that was no longer the case.

Her curious study was brief and somewhat fractured, due to the mess of blood and dark hair that hid a portion of his face from view. But she could recognize that the Manmer before her had rougher, more Nordic features, though his face still held the sharpness of the Altmer at his cheekbones and his jaw line. It was a more even mix of man and elf; perhaps, she reasoned silently to herself, they had finally found a place amidst Altmer and Nord and became their own official race.

Her hand was drawn to the throat of this human; his pumping heart calling to her and rousing the adrenaline in her veins, her hands met the metal clasped leather armor that covered his neck. Her eye brows furrowed and her lips thinned, her fingers slid up to uncovered skin under his jaw, he shifted and she stilled, her other hand twitching towards her dagger but he gave no other signs of consciousness. The tension soon eased somewhat from her stance as she perused the mortal who seemed to be the reason she had awoken, the only one who was still alive, even after he should have been dead. She retracted her hand with a frown and flexed her fingers; the sudden spike in his heartbeat leaving them tingling, he was not supposed to survive.

The questions that hung over her were stifling with their weight, and the weakness of her body wrought by being locked away seemed to influence her mind. A heavy sigh escaped her then, one long overdue as she sat back and studied the dying man in front of her. Her thoughts whirred to her current predicament; she had awoken with no clue as to her location, or the current era. Judging by the roughened cavern centuries or more had passed since she fell into the magically induced coma, and the land of Skyrim had undoubtedly changed over time. Her knowledge was insufficient to get her home, if she could not get to Castle Volkihar, she would not find out what had happened, why her mother had not come for her. _Was she killed? _Her heart twisted at the thought, she dismissed it hastily and focused, shoving the dread within her mind back into its gilded cage that also housed her power.

Exhaustion overtook her and she rubbed her forehead, the dull _thumpthump_ of a mortal heart ever present in her skull as if it were her own heart beating. She tried to scheme a plan that would get her to her parents, and her fate. The heart was slowing now, her mind cautioned her of the meaning; she had little time to decide.

Mortality is a fragile thing.

Hand dropping limply she stared at the Manmer. Serana needed him, this dying mortal. _Why must the ancestors be so cruel? _Perhaps, she considered, she should turn him into a thrall. She studied him with a frown, he would lead her to the castle with no concern of treachery or backstabbing, she highly doubted that should he retain his own mind that he would chose to help her.

She rubbed her forehead again, ignoring the light smears of blood that coated her fingers, her mind told her that turning him into a thrall would be the most efficient and safest way to get her to her home, but she hesitated. A heavy feeling burdened her since her awakening, a creeping clutch of loneliness had settled over her unsuspectingly and she found herself thinking of becoming the thrall's master with distaste. A lowly fall she had taken, if she would gladly take the mistrust and hostility only to soothe that painful ache that could not be settled with bottled blood, she sat back on the balls of her feet as her mind battled itself internally. She had been without company for who knows how many eras, the thought kept unsettling her the more she thought of it.

_No_, Serana finally decided, burying the heated protests of a portion of her mind just as another part grew warmer with the thought of not being alone, at least not literally. She would not turn him into a thrall. Finally a more positive feeling settled within her, despite the urging of her more distrustful side.

If he becomes too hostile, she could always turn him later. That decision seemed logical, and it settled her mind, she could practically hear the protests quiet.

Serana felt the relief of resolve as soon as she reached her decision, despite the quiet, nagging doubt of what was to come once she faced her father, which she undoubtedly will sooner or later. She sat up and scanned the littered, dead bodies around her, specifically zoning in on the dead thrall's. She needed healing potions, her eyes snapped to the multiple lacerations and bruises that scattered along the open skin of her to-be-savior, _lots of them..._

First though, she had to get them somewhere safer.

_Definitely not in the open,_ her mind supplied helpfully, she sheathed her elven dagger and knelt down to gather the Manmer, but not before taking care to gather the mortal's weapons should he awaken at an inopportune time. It would not do for a Daughter of Coldharbour to be killed by a half dead mortal.

Feeling the gilded metal at her back, she had a feeling enough people were planning her death already.

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**A/N: Luckily the time I spent without internet at our new place was used quite productively by myself, so the next chapter should be up soon. **

**Also, in response to some reviews for the last chapters (you know how I love 'em)**

**Last of the Ancients: Your reviews are always helpful, and you are awfully brave to defy ol' man winter for me (up here in Canada he can be quite nasty, especially this winter), I am glad you are enjoying my take on vampirism so far. As for Arbos and vampirism, well as long as he has the cure poison he is pretty safe, although as I am trying to show in my story that it is very easy to contract vampirism when dealing with vampires, since they have both close range and long range ways to give you the virus (speaking of normal weapon attacks and the vampire drain). Will Arbos contract vampirism? I am conflicted about answering this question, on one hand I would like my readers to know which way this story will go (Dawnguard or Vampire Lord), but on the other I would like the story to unravel itself as it continues. I guess i'll stick with just saying that no matter whichever way this story will go, I'll strive to make it enjoyable for my readers.**

**DarkquillMaster: ...I did not notice until you mentioned it, thank you. I will do my best to go through the previous chapters and fix it up some, although knowing myself I'll probably not catch all the mistakes seeing as it took me this long to figure out I was doing it, .. **

**But I am very glad you enjoy my story. : ) **

**Big thanks to everyone who took some time to review, your support and help with my story is always a treat.**

**- thyvillain**


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